Cairo Nights
by Nakhti
Summary: -News update- Jonathan is English, free and single (not to mention drunk as a lord) getting up to all sorts of shenanigins in Cairo with his partner in crime...What will Evy say?
1. The Accusation

Cairo Nights

**Disclaimer:** No, Jonathan is not mine. Although I borrow him from time to time, I will always give him back in (almost) pristine condition.

**A/N:** Hey guys, by popular demand (well, three people) I have written another fic! Jonathan has a special place in my heart, because he's funny and English and a bit of an idiot, and I love John Hannah. So, this could be the start of a whole series of episodes about his shenanigans in Cairo. If you like it, you know what to do!

Chapter One

"Well then, I think it's about time we turned them over, don't you think so boys?"

Jonathan gave a smug grin and surveyed the assortment of poker faces arrayed around the card table. The bleary, blood shot eyes of a surly Irishman scrutinised him suspiciously, and the shifty little Arab opposite him eyed the substantial pot with ill concealed greed.

"Come on now, show Johnny what you've got, gentleman," he said in a cocky voice, almost a hundred pounds up and bolstered by about half a bottle of bourbon. He took another swig from his tumbler, dribbling a little down his chin and onto his collar in his eagerness and excitement. It didn't really matter; his shirt was already filthy with sweat, dirt, and various other stains. Was that lipstick? He brushed his knuckles against his lapel, with that self assured nonchalance that is so quintessentially English.

"Two pair," the Yank to his left drawled, muffled by the soggy cigar clenched lazily in his teeth. The tanned American raised an eyebrow and proudly placed his cards fanned out in front of him.

"Oh, good show old boy!" Jonathan congratulated, typically blasé and obviously not worried by the hand. "You?" he said to the suspicious Irishman in the battered felt cap.

"Nuthin'" he muttered back bitterly, slapping his hand of cards face down in disgust.

"Oh, bad luck O'Brian!" Jonathan commiserated, even more confident now.

"Kiss my arse, you weasel."

"Now, now! No need to get nasty- we're all friends here," Jonathan brushed off the insult with good humour, thick skinned as a dim witted rhino. "Have another drink, man!" pouring him another three fingers of Jim Beam.

O'Brian grunted, sneered, snatched up the glass and took a huge swig, slammed it back down again, empty.

"Well, I'll tell you what I got," the other Yank suddenly put in, "Bupkiss!" He snorted, looking across at his buddy with an apologetic little shrug. "A pair," he announced dejectedly, revealing his useless cards.

"Well, neither of us are getting our hands on 'a pair' tonight," the other muttered, looking longingly at one of the belly dancers shimmying her amble bosom at a sleazy patron on the other side of the bar.

"Come along," Jonathan prompted the quiet Arab sitting opposite him, "what do you have, my shifty little friend?"

The dark skinned man peeked up from under his maroon turban, and silently laid his cards out, one by one; ten of clubs….…..the jack…...…queen……...king………

_Surely, surely he can't have a………yes he bloody well does!_ Jonathan thought, as the man finally placed down the dog-eared white card with its solitary emblem in the centre; the ace of clubs.

"Bloody cheat!" Jonathan cried, jumping up from his chair in abject outrage. "You took that from another pack, you sneaky little bugger!"

"_Allah yilanak!_ I did not!" the indignant Egyptian yelled back.

"Don't you bloody well swear at me, you filthy little beggar! I know you cheated!"

"That's a pretty big accusation there, Johnny, you got any proof?" the first American asked, halting the vehement exchange of insults with a raised hand.

"Well," Jonathan blustered, "I have an ace of clubs here that says you're full of it, sir!" he levelled an accusatory finger at the dark face of the man in question, who was looking daggers back at him.

"You are the cheat then," the accused countered in defence.

"How dare you! I would never have-"

"Shut it the both of you!" the American interrupted, "Only one way to settle this- both show us your cards. They can't both be from the same deck, we'll judge which is which."

"You? I don't think I trust a couple of cowboys like you to judge impartially- how do I know you're not in league with him?" Jonathan whined.

"You suspicious little bastard!" the Yank yelled back, standing up and spitting out his cigar, ready to knock his pompous English head off.

"Quit it Jack!" his buddy said sternly, jumping up to get between him and the scrawny Brit he was about to pulverise. "He's right, we need an impartial judge. There must be someone in here…" he scanned the dingy, smoke filled den of iniquity, and his eyes seized on a tall, blonde man sipping a clear drink at the bar. He was neat and clean shaven, wearing a crumpled linen shirt, khaki breeches and brown leather boots. Of all the people in this disreputable little gambling den, he had the least dishonest face, or so the American seemed to think.

"What about him?"

"Sure, Billy, why not?" Jack replied, seating himself again, "He looks like he has his wits about him." A rare quality indeed in this place, where everything, from women to whiskey, was cheap and in abundance.

"Excuse me sir," Jonathan called, "would you mind terribly-"

"I'll ask him!" Jack said impatiently. "Hey buddy! These guys have gotten themselves into a little dispute. Wondering if you could settle it for us?"

"If I can," the blonde man replied amiably, putting down his tall, half finished glass and strolling over to the gambling table in the back of the bar. "What it's all about?"

"Well, somehow we seem to have too many aces wearing the same suit. You just gotta judge which one matches the rest of deck."

"I see," he said, nodding in understanding. That was indeed a bit of a problem. "Chuck them over here then, gentlemen."

The shifty Arab reluctantly slid his card across the table, and after eyeing up the new comer for a second or two, Jonathan did the same. The two Englishmen, one blonde and tanned, the other dark haired and flush faced, exchanged momentary glances before the blonde picked up the identical aces and turned them over in his hands. He rubbed them with his light fingers, feeling their thickness, texture, flicking them with his nail to listen for the sound they made. Then he inspected the geometric patterns decorating their backs, peering into the designs for minute differences of colour or style, and nodded with the authority of an expert.

"Now let me look at the rest of the deck."

Jack handed it to him, and the man began to shuffle the pack deftly, chopping it into sections with the swiftest movement of his fingers, sliding them over each other, the cards in constant motion, his hands a blur. Jonathan gave him a warning look, but the blonde man merely smiled back as he picked a single, random card out of the deck. Then he applied the same tests to this specimen. The players looked on keenly, the Americans with more disinterested curiosity than the two men whose fortunes relied on the outcome of this judgement. The Irishman poured himself another drink and gulped it down out of boredom, waiting for the next play to start.

"So?" Jack inquired, after a reasonable period had elapsed for the man's contemplation.

"Well, I'd say without a doubt that one of these cards is from another deck." The blonde stranger said decisively. Everybody, except the Irishman, who couldn't care less, groaned.

"Yes, we know that, but which one?" Jonathan demanded impatiently.

"You see the stem of the club on this one?" they all leaned in for a closer look, "well, it's shorter than the other. Of course that could mean anything, because every card is a little different-"

"Which card is the bloody fake!" Jonathan screeched.

"The other one."

"How can you tell?" Jack asked curiously.

"Different quality card. The lacquer on it isn't as good, that's why it's so dog-eared. It's thinner."

The Arab jumped up in fury and started spouting obscenities, bringing his fist down hard on the table, sending the mound of coins and notes into a clinking little landslide. He tried to take back his stake, which was all he had in the world down to the last piaster.

"Ah, come on, caught out fair and square buddy," Jack bore down on him with a frown, all of a sudden on Jonathan's side.

"Yes, come on Khalid, give me what I'm owed," Jonathan said blithely, unaware of exactly what Khalid thought that was.

"I'll give you what you deserve…" the hot blooded Egyptian sneered at him, and in a motion far quicker than any of the other's sluggish reactions- he was the only one not to have touched a drop of liquor- he launched at Jonathan. No one had even seen him unsheathe a twinkling blade from a scabbard concealed beneath his robes, but now it was pressed against the naïve Englishman's Adam's apple. Khalid was not in the business of idle threats either, he would gladly relinquish the winnings to slit Jonathan's throat. His honour was worth more.

Suddenly the rickety card table was nearly turned over by the reactions of the three men. Jack pulled a Smith&Wesson, Billy pulled a Derringer, Jonathan pulled a hamstring trying to scramble out of the way.

"Hey, shortstack!" Jack jeered at Khalid, "that looks like three against one."

"Two," Jonathan hastily corrected him, leaning away from the knife, "I don't want any part of this!" he whined pathetically, trying to back away with his hands up defensively.

"Right the first time," The blonde man said menacingly, stepping forward to join the standoff. No one moved, five pairs of eyes darting from one to the other. Jonathan's wild blue eyes were transfixed by the malevolent black ones staring their deadly intent straight back at him.

"Come on gentlemen," the stranger said conciliatorily, "there are no winners here if blood is spilt."

"And what does it have to do with you?" the Arab snapped at him, still glaring into Jonathan's eyes, ignoring the two guns trained on his head.

"His Majesty's Army keeps the peace in Cairo," the blonde soldier stated evenly, drawing his service revolver from the waistband of his khaki's and placing it against Khalid's eye socket. He cocked the trigger, and the audible _click!_ made the hopelessly outnumbered man jump slightly.

"Do the smart thing, sir," the soldier said, pressing the cold barrel against the Arab's tightly shut eyelid. Khalid didn't need to be told twice. Grudgingly removing the knife from against Jonathan's throat he backed away from the uncomfortable pressure on his eyeball, and slunk off, his eyes constantly trained on the soldier with a contemptuous glare. The rest of them heard him moving through the bar towards the exit, spitting curses and vowing revenge on Jonathan.

Jonathan let out a huge sigh of relief, and whistled shakily.

"Sorry about that, boys, seems our little friend is a sore loser!" he said breezily, straightening his lapel and brushing down his trousers. "Thanks for the help, sir, but I could have handled it." He swaggered, with typical public school bravado.

"Yeah, I know." The soldier smirked, jamming his gun back in the gap between his waistband and the small of his back. The two Americans holstered their weapons too, and sat down with slightly shell shocked expressions. The only one seemingly unaffected by the little incident was O'Brian, who had picked up the deck and was shuffling it sloppily, his blood shot eyes glazed, nose and cheeks glowing with drink.

"Right! Well then, let's see what I've won………" Jonathan sat down and cradled the pot with his arms, about to gather it to him when Billy suddenly had a thought.

"Hey, we haven't even seen your cards yet, buddy!" he laughed, as if it was irrelevant.

"Yeah, he's right Johnny. Whaddaya have anyway?" Jacked asked, curious, not that he doubted the Englishman had the winning hand.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, didn't I turn them over?" Jonathan asked innocently, knowing perfectly well he hadn't, guarding them jealously in his breast pocket the whole time. He only had to beat two pair, now that Khalid had been shown up as a dirty rotten cheat.

"Well, there's really no point, but if you insist………" he unceremoniously laid down his remaining cards, and two pair was exactly what he had; a pair of kings, and a pair of aces. With the now authenticated card the soldier still held in his left hand, that made a full house.

"Jesus! No wonder you looked so smug!" Jack chuckled.

"Well, I think that's my cue to quit," Jonathan said, cheerfully sweeping coins into his hat and stuffing wads of notes into his pockets. "Pleasure doing business with you, fellas."

He got up and smiled at the blonde soldier, his lucky charm as it seemed. "Join me in a drink sir?"

"No thanks, it's late. I should get back to the fort." He said reluctantly, starting towards the door.

"By Jove, you're right there!" Jonathan exclaimed, looking at his watch. "See you fellas!" he called to the remaining three players, O'Brian already dealing the next hand.

The two Americans merely raised their eyes in cursory acknowledgement, more than happy to see the back of the troublesome gent. Then they went back to scrutinising the Irishman intently, now each more suspicious of their fellow players than ever. Jonathan left the bar and emerged into the sticky night air.

Outside he clapped the tall blonde man on the back of the shoulder.

"I say! Well done Stephen! You almost had me convinced!" he chortled. "Told you it'd work better if you shaved the beard- a bearded man has something to hide, my dear old Mum always used to say. You look much more trustworthy without it." Stephen simply grinned back, rubbing his smooth chin which was still a little strange to him. The scam had worked better this time, but he did miss his face furniture.

"Now, what did we agree on? Twenty per cent?" Jonathan asked.

"Thirty."

"That doesn't sound like something I'd agree to………but alright. Sixty pounds it is."

"Hey! Don't try to swindle me as well! You won more than two hundred, more like five hundred!" Stephen objected loudly.

"Was it really? I wasn't actually counting. Come on, I'd never swindle a partner!"

Jonathan looked around him, reluctant to count out that sort of amount in plain sight in a back alley. "Let's go find some belly dancers."


	2. A Brush With The law

A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers! I got a lot more for this than for my other fic. I would be so chuffed if I got the same amount for this chapter!  
  
Aulizia: Thanks so much for the kind comments! I really enjoy your stories, and I think you should definitely write more Mummy fics.  
  
Imhoteps Lover: I hope you post your new fic soon! I just felt I couldn't let my public down, seeing as you love me sooooo much... lol! But no, no sandwich for you. Theyre all MINE!!!! Mwah ha ha ha!!!!  
  
EvelynC.O: I think posting my own reviews displays a healthy sense of self evaluation, (nyarf!) I just couldn't be bothered to do a serious one for this fic. When can I ever bother to be serious? Anyhoo, thanks for the review. No sandwich for you either I'm afraid!  
  
Nefertirioc: Ha Ha! Fooled you! See, I updated because you asked so nicely... 'Jon the Con', hmmmm *rubs chin contemplatively* That could be a better chapter title.  
  
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"OOOOOOOO............................................................  
  
There once was a girl from Devizes,  
Who had boobs of all different sizes,  
One was so small you couldn't see it at all,  
But the other was huge and won prizes!"  
  
Jonathan lurched halfway into the street, giggling manically as he finished singing the out of tune limerick at the top of his voice. Clutching his precious liquor bottle in one hand he doubled over with the hilarity of his own imbecility, almost choking with raucous laughter, stumbling in the gutter as he yawed back towards the pavement.  
  
"Steve! Steve...I love you..." he slurred as he flung an arm around his partner in crime, debauchery and all other manner of vices.  
  
"No, no, no, you love..." Stephen frowned as his racked his brain for a name, any one of the numerous names he could have picked from the catalogue of women they had consorted with over the last week.  
  
"Zeelah! That little minx... great big....jubblies!" he shouted coarsely, raising his hands to caress imaginary breasts in front of him, smiling like a lecherous old goat.  
  
Jonathan tittered like a school girl, spitting a little spray of bourbon through his teeth which dribbled down his chin. He tipped the nearly empty bottle up to reward his friend with a swig. As Stephen gulped greedily an inane grin spread across Jonathan's face, his tongue protruding from his mouth with lust.  
  
"I know!" he sniggered, smiling at the fond memory of warm female flesh, a wise use of his winnings. "Lovely... uh..."  
  
"Eyes?" Stephen teased, lowering the bottle and batting his eyelids like a fool, making kissy faces at Jonathan.  
  
"Arse!" Jonathan boomed back. Then he snatched the bottle of bourbon back, tipped the remaining dregs of drink down his throat, and sputtered as it went down the wrong way. Coughing wetly, he tried to clear the fluid from his windpipe, his eyes bugging comically, waving his arms like a drowning man. His blonde crony whacked him on the back, a little too hard to be very helpful.  
  
"Ow! That hurt you bugger!" Jonathan yelled when he had recovered himself, taking a swing at his friend. But he was hardly coordinated enough to walk and talk at the same time, let alone keep his balance to throw a punch. Wheeling around like a demented clown, he went arse over tit and ended up sprawled in the road, his legs in the air like a dead cockroach. To his credit, he managed to keep a hold of the liquor bottle, the only thing which survived the fall in tact. His dignity didn't fare so well.  
  
"You prat!" Stephen guffawed in delight at his friend's idiotic antics, clapping his hands as if he were watching his own private circus.  
  
"Don't you tell me what I am, you bloody...prat!" Jonathan retaliated in what he thought was a very witty comeback. He sniggered though his nose, snorting like a camel as he picked himself up. Oops! He had forgotten where the curb was..  
  
CRASH!!!!  
  
And he was down for a second time. Well, second time in the last five minutes anyway.  
  
"PRAT!" Stephen screamed exultantly, rocking backwards and forwards, holding his stomach and wincing with the pain of laughter. "Prat, prat, prat!"  
  
Jonathan couldn't retort this time because he was racked with spasms of giggles himself, bright red in the face and rolling around in the dust, dung and detritus of the gutter. He let out a howl of laughter, uncurling himself to lie flat in the road, spread eagled, gazing vacantly up into the sickly orange city sky.  
  
And gazing straight into a dark, angry looking face.  
  
"Oh, bloody hell..." Jonathan whispered, seeing the pale uniform and insignia of the Cairo city police. "Hellooo ossifer!" he slurred, lapsing into giggles again.  
  
The dark skinned policeman was not impressed. He had the authoritarian look of someone who would quite happily throw a man in jail for a much lesser offence than disturbing the peace.  
  
"What do you think you are doing down there?" he commanded in his deep baritone, his Middle Eastern features contorted into a dark frown.  
  
"He was just taking a rest, officer," Stephen said, trying to look serious but barely able to contain his own laughter. "Please don't throw him in jail Mr. Policeman, he's had a very rough night!"  
  
"So I can see... perhaps you would like to sober up at the station?" The police officer loomed imposingly over the filthy little linen heap that was Jonathan.  
  
"No thanks, there are no trains at this hour..." Jonathan said sarcastically, before exploding into another fit of giggles.  
  
"Shut up Johnny! You'll get us in trouble!" Stephen warned, putting his finger to his lips, or trying to. In his state he wasn't quite able to determine his lips from the rest of his features, and nearly poked himself in the eye.  
  
"I'm afraid you are already in trouble," the officer stated, quite positively savouring the prospect of arresting a couple of drunken Englishmen. It was high time they stopped swanning around their country as if they owned the place.  
  
"Now, now, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement..." Jonathan schmoozed, that debonair confidence flooding back to him all of a sudden now that the occasion called for it. Sobering slightly, he hauled himself up off the ground and tried to appear steady, brushing down his now revolting linen suit.  
  
"You see, I have something in my pocket that I think might persuade you to overlook our little...indiscretion." He put up his hand, motioning the officer to wait a second, while with the other he rummaged in his trouser pocket.  
  
The officer's interest was piqued, although he tried to appear like he didn't know he was about to be bribed. He leaned forward a little, eyes lighting up with the anticipation of a tidy wad of cash coming his way.  
  
What did come his way was totally unexpected. Jonathan had opted for the old Englishman's bluff, and instead of pulling out his wallet, he pulled out his fist- and hurled it straight into the man's nose. The accuracy of the punch surprised even him, as the officer went down heavily.  
  
"RUN YOU BASTARD!" he yelled at Stephen, who was far too inebriated to be following what was happening. Jonathan yanked him by the collar and dragged him after him as he lurched down an alley way and into the maze of tiny backstreets.  
  
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A/N: 'Well that's another fine mess you've gotten me into!' quoth Jonathan. Silly man. What would Evy say? Actually, that's what we're about to find out! 


	3. Bloomin heck!

A/N: Helloooo! Sorry its been a while, but I've just got back from holiday in sunny Corfu!! It was soooo hot, and I drank soooo many cocktails... feeling a little bit delicate these days. Anyway, I wrote some of this before I left, and then added what I wrote on holiday, so it's a bit longer than usual. But we're not going to find out what Evy says quite yet- Jonathan hasn't finished getting into trouble yet!  
  
If this chapter seems a little random, its because Jonathan is in my head doing random stuff, and I cant control him! He just comes out with the funniest things sometimes.  
  
To my Reviewers: a collective thank you to all, and much appreciation for your appreciation. I will try not to disappoint you by keeping the humour turned up, but forgive me if I ever go astray; tis but my inadequacy to convey his hilarious antics, and no fault of Jonathan's own!  
  
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Chapter 4  
  
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"Jesus Johnny," Stephen panted, slowing to a quick walk when they had come a safe distance through the labyrinthine backstreets of the city, "You just assaulted a police officer!"  
  
"I wouldn't say assaulted, exactly-" Jonathan began with an airily dismissive gesticulation.  
  
"You thumped him on the nose!"  
  
"I tapped him, playfully."  
  
"Well, if that's 'Playful Johnny', I don't think I want to see what 'Mean Johnny' looks like-"  
  
"Ah yes, MEAN JOHNNY..." Jonathan said with a slow nod of wary acknowledgement. "Don't mess with him, I hear he's an absolute brute!"  
  
And with that he suddenly turned on his friend with a look of murderous intent, blocking his way, transformed into his Dr Jekyll like alter ego; Mean Johnny had come out to play. Jaw set, shoulders squared, fists up, Jonathan glowered at his fellow reprobate, daring him to take him on.  
  
Stephen stared back, open mouthed and furrow browed, not sure whether to take him seriously or not. He looked so menacing, so angry, so thoroughly un-Jonathan-like. What on earth had happened to the mild mannered English fop everyone knew and loved? He gaped at him in shock and bewilderment, struggling to form some sort of sentence, his slack lips mouthing silent syllables in the manner of a particularly imbecilic goldfish.  
  
Jonathan was so amused by the look on his face he nearly wet his pants (it wouldn't be the first time he'd done so when drunk) and cracked up. Dropping his hands to his sides he scrunched up his nose, threw back his head and gave a great silent laugh that hurt all the way to his diaphragm.  
  
Stephen shot him a bitter look as if to say 'ha ha, you got me, very bloody funny', before immediately giggling at himself too. With a cheerfully vengeful smile he whacked Jonathan on the back of the head.  
  
"That's for making me look like a dope!"  
  
"You do that by yourself anyway!" Jonathan lashed out an arm at him, taking the tall, well built soldier by surprise to put him in a headlock. Stephen wriggled out of it before Jonathan could apply his knuckles to his scalp, instead grabbing Jonathan's hand and pinning his arm behind his back in a painful half nelson.  
  
Jonathan yelped like a scalded puppy, flailing with his free hand as he arched his back trying to alleviate the excruciating angle of his shoulder.  
  
"Mercy! Mercy!"  
  
"You beg for clemency?"  
  
"Yes, yes, oh for pity's sake, let up!" Jonathan whinged feebly, his face contorted into a mask of torture. Stephen chuckled with glee and loosened his grip, which gave Jonathan the freedom of movement he needed to wheel round and make a charge at his stomach. Stephen sidestepped and counter rushed, and the two drunken gents zigzagged across the alleyway like a couple of school boys in the yard.  
  
Laughing and horsing around, not a care in the world, they took no notice of random items sent flying, the rubbish bins kicked over, or the fluttering, bat-like objects strung across the passageway. Veering blindly from one wall to another, Stephen suddenly found himself with a faceful of something soft and billowy. He had snagged an object on one of the washing lines criss-crossing the alley, and like a wild bull suddenly hooded, it stopped him in his tracks.  
  
Jonathan straightened up to see what had so startled his friend, and was confronted with the sight of Stephen standing in the dark with a pair of enormous lady's bloomers on his head. The lady they belonged to must indeed have been enormous, for they covered Stephens entire face and reached all the way down to his shoulders. Each of the pink frilly leg holes was big enough for both he and Stephen to climb into at once.  
  
And then they were laughing like idiots again, for the millionth time that night. Amid the gasps and guffaws Stephen managed to squeak out  
  
"I'm going to get court martialled you know!" pushing the frilly folds of underwear back over his head, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, face a disturbing shade of vermillion.  
  
Jonathan's immediately became serious.  
  
"Christ, you are aren't you?" A pang of guilt began to gnaw at his numbed wits, realising his friend's dishonourable conduct was mostly through his own bad influence. Violation of military orders would certainly earn him a dishonourable discharge; he should have been back at the fort hours ago, but instead he was getting drunk and acting like a loon with his old pal Johnny. Then there was that little tussle with the local authorities...  
  
"Hey, don't worry Stevie, I'll stick up for you my friend! Just show me to the Sergeant Major or whoever you blokes answer to, and I'll straighten everything out." He leaned in and tapped his nose conspiratorially "corroborating witness", he said, pointing at himself and winking. "Denial will get you out of anything."  
  
"It's the fastest way to Luxor!" Stephen blarted out with a snort.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You know- De Nile?" he said, braying idiotically and slapping his thigh as if he had just made the wittiest joke in the history of witty jokes.  
  
Jonathan groaned.  
  
"Ah, yes, 'the pun'. Such a sage form of wit. If only wit were shit you'd be full of it!"  
  
"You're a poet and you didn't know it!"  
  
"Shut up, fool." Jonathan chided with an arch expression, but he couldn't help smiling.  
  
The smile faltered as a light came on somewhere above his head. A pale yellow glow suddenly lit up the alley, illuminating the two drunken carousers; one wearing a linen suit that used to be white, the other with a big pink pair of bloomers perched atop his head like a serving wench's cloth cap.  
  
A window shutter banged violently open, and an irritable voice exclaimed  
  
"Maaza qult? Man hunaak?!" in the very familiar tone of a very familiar irascible Arab.  
  
"Oh hell's bells." Jonathan whispered, "Khalid!"  
  
Above and to their left the diminutive gambler's dark form was silhouetted against the bright oblong of light of a first floor window. Soon his very large wife appeared beside him, and the two Englishmen were once again plunged into darkness, as she completely filled the frame.  
  
"You!" Khalid boomed disbelievingly as his eyes adjusted to behold the face of the man who had cheated him earlier that night. His lips twisted into a snarl and his black, bird like eyes twinkled dangerously. Then his mouth dropped open as his gazed fell upon Stephen.  
  
"And YOU!!" he bellowed in outraged realisation. He had guessed their scam.  
  
His face was hidden by the colossal shadow of his wife, but both Jonathan and Stephen noted the high pitched disbelief in his voice as he shrieked  
  
"Get my wife's knickers off your head!!"  
  
Turning to his wife contritely he garbled something apologetic in Arabic. She didn't look happy at all. As Khalid turned his face away from the alley, presenting a view of his right cheek, Jonathan thought he could see the deep, purpling bruise of a fresh black eye.  
  
Poor bugger, he thought to himself, I hope that wasn't any of my doing.  
  
Actually it was Khalid's wife's doing, having occurred during the course of a conversation about their new enforced state of poverty, thanks to her husband's lamentable ineptitude as a gambler. Now she elbowed him painfully in the ribs, motioning towards the street and shouting something abusive, at which Khalid disappeared.  
  
Only to re-emerge at the street level door right next to Jonathan.  
  
"I'm going to kill you this time, you thieving English son of a whore!" he hissed venomously, clutching an even bigger knife this time. More of a machete, really.  
  
Stephen was still drunk, but he at least had the tiniest vestige of sense still in his head to remember his revolver. He reached his hand to the back of his trousers and groped for the handle.  
  
Oh hell. It wasn't there. With a sinking sensation Stephen realised it must have fallen out somewhere between their mad dash from the officer and their drunken brawling in the alley just now. Khalid was now bearing down on them, brandishing the dull silver blade murderously, and Jonathan was absolutely no help. He was quivering like a jellyfish beside him, eyes as big as saucers, whimpering quietly.  
  
"Er, Stevie? Now might be an opportune moment to come to my aid...IF IT'S NOT TOO MUCH TROUBLE!!!" he screamed.  
  
"Not this time, Johnny," Stephen said with resignation and no small amount of fear, "I'm all out of ideas," he sighed, bringing up his empty hands.  
  
Jonathan's expression was one of dismay, followed by a momentary flash of annoyance, which was immediately replaced by terror. He had only one option left open to him, but fortunately it was one he was very good at. With a last backward glance at the advancing attacker, he turned on his heels and fled back up the alley the way he had come.  
  
Stephen quickly got the idea, and took off after him.  
  
As they ran- Jonathan pumping his arms manically and screeching like a banshee- a faint, tinny blast shrilled out of the darkness ahead of them, accompanied by the rapid thud of approaching footsteps. It was just audible above the noise of their own fearful retreat. Then again the whistling shriek sounded, louder, nearer, longer, more insistent. Feet pounding dusty stone- two sets of feet.  
  
When the whistle blast came again it was so strident it seemed to pierce the hollow of Jonathan's ear, and as he careened around a corner, as fast as his agile legs could carry him, he came face to face with the originator of that cacophony of sound and fury; one bloody nosed Cairo police officer. Evidently he was still doggedly pursuing the offenders, only this time he was accompanied by his partner.  
  
Jonathan barely avoided knocking him down for the second time that evening, then himself nearly went flying as Stephen barrelled into the back of him.  
  
"Detour! DETOUR!!" Jonathan bellowed, finding his balance and starting up his legs again, desperately lunging in whatever direction presented some escape. But there was no way out except through one or other of their pursuers.  
  
Stephen shook his head despondently, steeling himself to accept their fate. An officer always took it on the chin, no matter what the consequence.  
  
"Johnny, we're surrounded. It's time to make your choice and take your chances." He reached out a big, calloused hand and caught Jonathan by the lapel as he was running in little circles, still looking for some kind of loop hole in their situation.  
  
Jonathan jumped about three feet in the air, and gave a little shriek like a mouse caught by the tail. As he looked back over at Stephen his eyes went even wider, if that were possible, so that now they resembled dinner plates rather than just saucers. He had spotted Khalid behind them, hatred contorting his features, eyes blazing fire, machete twisting in his hands as he made cruel, gutting motions. He was still to reach the corner, so that he had not yet seen the two police officers in the next alley.  
  
Jonathan began to see how this might be to their advantage, and with a bit of cunning turn three groups into two.  
  
"Hold on Stevie, I've got an idea." 


	4. Down But Not Out?

A/N: I love all my reviewers, you are so kind! I am starting to get tingly fingers again- time to write! Forgive me for a temporary change of tone, but its time to get serious... our heroes find themselves in grave peril- dun dun duuuuh!  
  
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Chapter 5  
  
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The two inebriated Englishmen, sweaty, filthy and wheezing like a couple of old boilers, leant against the rough plaster at the corner of the run down building. Stephen was slumped over, gripping his knees as he tried to clear his foggy head and stop the ground doing little cartwheels before his eyes. It seemed he was still extremely smashed, despite the sobering effect of their terror and adrenaline fuelled sprint. All of a sudden his stomach didn't feel so good, and noisy, noxious burps took him by surprise between heaving in gulps of air.  
  
By contrast Jonathan was, for once, clear headed and sharp as a tack. He had one eye trained on each of their pursuers; to his right two angry policemen were advancing at a brisk walk, brandishing bright black batons; to his left, one very violent Khalid wielding a very wicked weapon. The two parties converged on the corner with the inevitability of a locomotive collision.  
  
He surveyed his surroundings, looking for possibilities; above, a wall bracket with a mounted gas lamp but no further hand holds up to the flat roof; behind, the blank featureless face of another cracked plaster building. Nothing else but the two blocked alleys, two fates awaiting them like the choice of Achilles; a short and glorious life (well, a short and painful death) or a long and inglorious one (a good beating followed by a stretch languishing in Cairo prison).  
  
Jonathan watched them close in from both sides, not far now, another few steps...  
  
"Johnny, I know I'm bolloxed, but I think I'd rather be bludgeoned than stabbed to death," Stephen murmured between gaseous belches. "Leave a better looking corpse, you know..." he said, turning his feet in the direction of the officers.  
  
"Shut up, you big girl's blouse, I'm plotting our escape!"  
  
"Escape?" he huffed with gloomy humour. "Do you see a big door with 'EXIT' marked on it? Let's face it- we're buggered."  
  
Jonathan smiled contemplatively, one bushy eyebrow pulled down while the other tried to crawl into his hairline, making little lopsided furrows on his glistening forehead. His eyes now seemed calm but his body said otherwise- it was tensed, almost dancing on the spot, every nerve in his invertebrate body straining just to keep him from racing off in a blind panic.  
  
He looked right; Khalid was close enough for Jonathan to smell the stale tobacco and whiskey on his breath, mixed with the insufferable stench of eau de Garlic.  
  
The odoriferous Arab flashed his brown, irregular, gap ridden teeth in a sadistic smile, in no hurry to get the fun over with now he was sure he had his quarry right within his grasp.  
  
"Aha!" Jonathan said suddenly, mind seizing on something suitably ingenious for a man of his talent for self preservation. He winked at Stephen, flashed Khalid a cocky grin in return for his menacing one, and gave a jaunty little twitch of his eyebrows as he mocked him with military salute.  
  
Khalid hawked back and spat at him, displaying incredible range, launching a huge yellow gobbet of something indescribably foul.  
  
Jonathan dodged it deftly, barely missing his once white trousers, and put his thumb to his nose and waggled his fingers like a school boy taunting a tiger through the bars. Except there were no bars to protect him here.  
  
"Come on you smelly little bugger..." he whispered to himself.  
  
"Er, Johnny? I really think you're backing the wrong horse there..." Stephen's eyes were wild and staring, his knees beginning to quiver at the sight of Khalid almost upon them.  
  
Jonathan motioned towards something with his eyes and a few quick jabs of the head. Stephen's brows knitted in confusion, then the light dawned. So he wasn't just a brainless twerp, he really did have a plan!  
  
"Yeah, come on you sack of camel snot!" Stephen jeered, joining in "why don't you go get your pet gorilla to tear us limb from limb! Oh, wait a minute, wasn't that your wife?"  
  
"Wow, you're evil, Stevie!" Jonathan chuckled appreciatively.  
  
Khalid seemed to undergo some sort of metamorphosis at the mention of his 'pet gorilla'. His eyes, which had hitherto been merely murderous, now seemed positively possessed with a satanic brutality. His face became grotesque as it twisted, the muscles writhing beneath the skin, teeth clamped tight enough to crack what was left of their enamel. The fist closed around the machete had turned white, like the cold, bloodless flesh of a dead man's grip.  
  
One step closer, and he would sink the blade into the soft flesh of Jonathan's belly, spilling his guts onto the dusty cobbles in a slippery, steaming mass.  
  
And then he did lash out at him. Jonathan was momentarily taken off guard, but his instincts served him well, and at the last second he sucked in his stomach and arched his back, rounding his shoulders so that his body curved into a concave shape. The blade missed him by a hair's breadth, ripping through linen jacket, cotton shirt and string vest to leave the white skin of his belly exposed through a long gaping slash.  
  
"My sister gave me this shirt, you blackguard!" Jonathan piped up indignantly.  
  
"J-Johnny?" Stephen stammered, eyes darting from the homicidal Arab to the affable Englishman and back again as he bounced on his toes, itching to dodge out of the way of that dull, gleaming edge. "Have you looked behind you recently?"  
  
Jonathan threw a quick glance over his shoulder- they're right on time, he thought to himself.  
  
He thrust out his chin, made a face at the irate Arab, stuck his tongue out and blew a very ungentlemanly raspberry.  
  
"Nyah nyah nuh nyah nyah!" he jeered childishly.  
  
'What the hell is he playing at??!!' Stephen thought incredulously, laughing under his breath with nervous shock. His friend was about to be gutted right before his eyes.  
  
Jonathan was still provoking Khalid, daring him to make a rush, beckoning him with his upturned hands.  
  
'Well, I don't know about Mean Johnny, but this is bloody Insane Johnny! He's lost the plot this time', Stephen lamented to himself.  
  
Then Khalid complied with Jonathan's request. Switching the knife in his grip so that it pointed downwards, his thumb over the end of the handle for increased stabbing force, he raised it above his head and charged at him. He was just starting to make the downwards slashing motion that would lodge the blade in Jonathan's chest, letting out a high pitched shriek that would have shattered crystal, when Jonathan executed his impromptu plan.  
  
The feigned hamstring injury from his old cricketing days now had a more serious purpose than getting him out of a bad over. Crumpling at the knees he ducked under the blow and launched himself out of the insane assailants path, leaping in a dive the England goalie would have been proud of.  
  
Khalid was so surprised he had no time to check his deadly thrust, and down his arm came, just as the two policemen rounded the corner at full tilt. The tip of the blade caught the first one just by the collar bone, the momentum forcing it a good three or four inches deep into the unfortunate officer's shoulder.  
  
He let out a piercing scream as he fell beneath the force of the blow, and landed in a heap beneath Khalid, pulling him down with him. The second officer, his bloody nose and all thoughts of Jonathan forgotten, began raining blows upon this new villain, shouting horrendous and unrepeatable things in his mother tongue.  
  
As Jonathan picked himself up he winced at the carnage and devastation he had just caused, feeling guilty about the wounded officer rather than his smelly ex gambling associate. He didn't have time to ponder his culpability though, as Stephen was tugging his arm.  
  
"What now?!" he screeched, almost out of his wits with panic.  
  
"I don't bloody know! I only had it figured out this far!" Jonathan yelled back, taking surreptitious steps away from the scene.  
  
The first officer was still down, moaning in agony as he clutched at the handle of the knife buried in his shoulder, while the bloody nosed cop had dragged Khalid to his feet and was proceeding to drub him over the head with vehemence.  
  
"Bloody hell Johnny, this is getting worse by the minute. I'm not going to be court marshalled- I'm going to be hanged!" Stephen hid his eyes with his grubby palm and began to sob quietly.  
  
"Oh, come on now man, get a hold of yourself!" Jonathan encouraged sternly, thwacking him on the shoulder in a manly gesture. "What's the first thing you do at the scene of a crime?"  
  
"Call for help?" Stephen suggested weakly, wiping his face with his sleeve and giving a fortifying sniff.  
  
"Christ no! Run away!" Jonathan replied, before taking off again at a nimble sprint.  
  
"Ah shit!" Stephen hissed as he once again found himself trailing after the rapidly retreating form of Jonathan. "Will this night ever end?!" he panted, catching up to his friend and overtaking him with his much longer strides.  
  
"Haven't had this much excitement in years!" Jonathan called as he stepped up his pace, beating the pavement with his worn leather soles, the tendons in his neck straining with the effort of keeping up with his more athletically built compadre.  
  
They approached the lines of washing again, looked up to find the light no longer on; the gorilla must have gone back to bed. They rushed past, bursting through the line of clothes, sending sleeves and trousers legs flapping in the current of air they created as they ran.  
  
Another corner lead the alley around the far side of the building. Stephen reached it first, tilting inwards as he turned in a swift, wide arc. Then, just as Jonathan was about to disappear into the darkness on the other side too, a string of furious obscenities broke forth from his friend.  
  
Jonathan appeared behind him, a silhouette standing in the middle of the narrow passageway, staring blankly at the unscalable face of a brick wall.  
  
"Shit! What is wrong with these people!" Stephen screamed. "Who puts a dead end in the middle of a bloody thorough fare?! What, do they never leave this godforsaken, stinking rat hole?" he was breathing so heavily his nostrils flared like the winner of the Dubai Cup.  
  
"I'll tell you who, dirty rotten little cheating Arabs, that's who!" Jonathan fumed with fiery indignation. Stephen looked at him as if he had just had a frontal lobotomy.  
  
"Jonathan, it was us, remember? We cheated you plank!"  
  
"Oh yeah...funny that I should have forgotten. What was it, a couple of hours ago?" Jonathan mused to himself, fumbling for his watch.  
  
"Try five or six," Stephen said, pointing to the dawn light beginning to peek over the flat tops of the buildings.  
  
"By Jove! Evy will kill me if she realises I've been out all night!"  
  
"Then find a way to get us out of here, Mr. 'I've-got-a-cunning-plan'." Stephen replied sarcastically, folding his arms in frustration and annoyance. He yawned until he thought the muscles in his jaw would snap, and then leaned against the wall tapping his foot, waiting for a brain storm.  
  
"Alrighty then, we can't go back because of... obvious reasons. We can't go forward because of-"  
  
"Because of the bloody great wall, you mean?"  
  
"Naturally. So...we have to go in another direction."  
  
"Well bugger me! The boy needs a prize!" Stephen mocked, clapping his hands sardonically. "Come on, a round of applause puhlease!"  
  
"Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a bunch..." Jonathan said irritably, then immediately smirked at the memory of Stephen wearing the gorilla's enormous pink bloomers on his head. Stephen smiled as well, but he was too annoyed and exhausted to laugh anymore.  
  
Jonathan went back to considering the situation at hand, tapping his forehead with the effort of thinking. Finally he threw his hands up with a defeated gesture.  
  
"Sod it, lets just break in somewhere."  
  
"You can't 'just break in somewhere' you nitwit! Round here they chop your hands off for that!"  
  
"Well you come up with something then, you sad excuse for a miscreant!" and he stamped his foot in scorn and aggravation, not realising he was on rather dangerous ground. Literally.  
  
At that precise moment in time Jonathan had chosen to stand upon the rotted wooden cover of an underground cellar, and as he brought his foot down in a fit of temper, the whole thing collapsed, sending planks and splinters and Jonathan hurtling down into the dust and darkness.  
  
As he disappeared in a cloud of debris, Stephen could just hear him shout 'Oh fiddlesticks!' before a loud bang and a sudden Oooof!  
  
Stephen rushed over and peered through the settling dust into the jagged, splintered mouth of the hole, trying to see the bottom to ascertain how far Jonathan might have fallen and how serious his injuries were.  
  
"Jonathan, mate? You alright?" he called into the blackness.  
  
Silence.  
  
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A/N: Well, was that exciting enough for you? I hope nobody minds the increased swearing, I just thought it was proportionate to the amount of trouble they were getting into! Don't have any idea when I will update-  
  
OOOH!!! While I was writing that my new computer just arrived! 15 inch TFT, Pentium 4 etc etc...yay!! Now I just have to find me a man to set it up...oh, I'm such a female! 


	5. A Delicate Matter

A/N: Dearest Revieweroos...wow, I feel like you guys are with me all the way! I'm hooked on writing this now, because I also want to see what Johnny gets up to- I'm not making this up ya know, I'm just a spectator to his antics!  
  
Marybug6otnile: I'm so glad you like this story! I read your latest chapter of Imhoteps Revenge, and I cant wait for the finale! I'm also a bit sad that it has to end... I will have to start reading Tears as Rain, but I'm saving that for when I have nothing else by you to keep me occupied! Your reviews mean a lot to me, because you're such a great writer.  
  
Imhoteps Lover: You are such a diligent reviewer- like me you hate it when people don't review. I'll try to help you get to your 200 goal, but I need to get to my first mile stone- 50! By the way, I was only pulling your leg in my weakest link review. I know you have a lot of stuff going all at the same time, so whenever you have the inspiration.  
  
Nefertirioc: I'm glad you think I portray Jonathan well- I think he's my favourite character, so I want to do him justice. Your reviews always make me feel better about my meager creative offerings. Thanks so much!  
  
Brunette: Welcome! Glad you're enjoying it. I do try to make the descriptions as important as the dialogue, after all its not a screenplay. I did a degree in English but I never got to write creative stuff because it was all literary criticism- snore. Now I get to do some though! Glad my efforts are appreciated.  
  
Nakhti: shut your mouth you stooped wench! I don't need your flames!  
  
I am writing this next chapter on my sexy new computer- god I love it! The sound of the keys as I tap away is like chocolate dropping on velvet! Oooohhh, I'm gettin carried away with it all.....  
  
*Glazed expression*  
  
AHEM!! On with it then.  
  
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Chapter 6  
  
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Stephen stood beside the spot where he had last seen Jonathan, just before he had plummeted into the unknown gloom of the jagged aperture. He bent low over it, cupped his hand to his mouth, and called out again.  
  
"Johnny! Jonathan, are you hurt?"  
  
From somewhere beneath him, filtering up through the darkness from what seemed like a long way away, came a thin voice.  
  
"Er...ye-es...I...I think so..." then a dusty cough and a painful moan. "I hurt my...you know..."  
  
Stephen winced with a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth.  
  
"Oh, mate!" he said sympathetically, knowing full well what a clonk in the crown jewels felt like. "Can you get up?"  
  
This was answered by the sound of shifting rubble and clinking pottery, then another loud crash, as of heavy wooden crates toppling from a piled height. An explosive smash and the tinkle of broken glass.  
  
"Jon, don't move! I'm coming down."  
  
Stephen dropped to his knees at the edge of the shattered cover, wishing it wasn't easier said than done. He had no idea how far down the floor was, and if he let himself fall and just hoped for the best he was likely to bust an ankle, or his neck. Then they really would be in trouble.  
  
The horizon was becoming steadily brighter, pouring a watery light over the buildings and casting a vague saffron glow onto the upper part of wall in front of him. The alley was still in shadow, but Stephen thought he could make out certain objects below him in the underground storeroom, a dim lustre picking out planes and angles a few feet beneath him. Packing crates.  
  
He scooted onto his backside and dangled a foot into the opening. Stretching his leg down a little further, edging out onto the dangerously unstable cover, he found the flat surface he was feeling for; the top of a stacked tower of wooden boxes. He wobbled it about a bit and found it fairly stable, so he gently lowered his entire weight onto it. Standing half in, half out of the cellar he started to climb down.  
  
"Stephen!"  
  
"Shit!" He nearly lost his footing at the shock of the sudden shout from below him, and clutched at the nearest crate to steady himself as he rocked back and forth precariously. "What?" he asked irritably when he'd found his balance again.  
  
"You'll never guess what." Jonathan said.  
  
"You're a big numbnuts?"  
  
"Actually they are a bit numb...but no. I've found the stairs." Jonathan chuckled as he watched his friend perilously negotiating his way down the tall, teetering tower. He pointed just to his right where, leading up to the side of the cover that was still in tact, was a rough timber staircase providing access to street level.  
  
"Ha bloody ha!" Stephen snarled as he continued to risk life and limb in his daring rescue attempt. Finally he planted his feet firmly on safe ground, and turned around to see what had become of his friend.  
  
Jonathan was lying down, propped up on his elbows amidst the splintered wreckage of several crates and wicker storage baskets, squinting back at him from the shadows. There was a contented grin plastered all across his dopey face, and then Stephen saw why; he had a bottle in his hand again.  
  
"Must be some sort of wine cellar- rather poor stuff, but it doesn't half pack a wallop!" he said cheerily, already tilting the bottle for another swig.  
  
"I thought you were hurt!" Stephen said angrily, slightly put out that he had just risked his neck, getting some pretty impressive splinters for his trouble, only to find Jonathan having a whale of a time. "Get off your arse you lazy bastard!"  
  
"Don't be like that, Stevie-"  
  
"Don't you 'Stevie' me!" He shouted, putting his hands on his hips, his brows forced together in a cross look. Jonathan was reminded of one of his dear baby sister's more unpleasant expressions, and giggled quietly.  
  
"Don't be such an old woman! Honestly, you're worse than Evy." Suddenly a wicked idea popped into his head. "Ha! That's what I'm going to call you from now on if you don't lighten up!" Jonathan shifted about and tried to aim a playful kick at Stephen's shin.  
  
"Ow! Ah, that wasn't a good idea..." he moaned, wincing with pain as he felt a sharp sensation in his backside.  
  
"Oh good, you're injured after all." Stephen muttered unkindly.  
  
Jonathan gave a strained grin and put the bottle down, extending a hand for Stephen to pull him up by. Stephen crossed his arms and simply stood watching him struggle. Jonathan pouted in a wimpy, pleading expression.  
  
"C'mon, give me a hand...please STEPHEN." Reluctantly Stephen relented, tutting and shaking his head at himself.  
  
As he grasped his friends wrist and heaved back on it, Jonathan gave a little scream of agony.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't know...ow, it hurts! It hurts!" he whined like a baby, waving one limp wrist in the air as he shut his eyes in pain. He began to whimper in the back of his throat, making little rodent like twitters in the dim light.  
  
"Jonathan...quit being such an imbecile. You're getting on my nerves."  
  
"You try feeling like there's a hot poker up your bottom, see how you like it!" the recumbent gent shot back defensively. He carefully levered himself up, with Stephens help, trying very hard not to knock his delicate posterior.  
  
As he got to his feet and turned round to inspect the damage, he realised that a new stain had been added to his dreadfully soiled trousers; blood.  
  
In the spot Jonathan had just vacated, glinting in the steadily growing glow of daylight, were the shattered remains of a glass bottle, several sharp slivers of which were now protruding from Jonathans derriere.  
  
"Oooch, that smarts!" he cried as he fingered the shards sticking out of his tender flesh.  
  
"Don't fiddle with it, you moron!" Stephen had now assumed the amused tone of a sadistic older brother, smiling as he watched Jonathan fannying about in agony and anguish.  
  
"Stand still, for God's sake, let me have a look!"  
  
"NO!" Jonathan shrieked, "You'll hurt me!"  
  
"I'll hurt you a lot more if you don't stop making that racket! You'll bring down holy hell on us if you wake someone up!"  
  
Jonathan abruptly ceased his fretting and stood stock still, realising where he was. Just behind him was a concrete step leading up to an inner door, and the last thing he wanted was to see a light go on the other side of it. He suddenly felt very trapped.  
  
"Alright," he said resignedly, "just be gentle with me..."  
  
Stephen came up behind him, bent down slightly, and surveyed the area. He was barely able to conceal a smirk as he realised his friend was going to have a hard time sitting down for a while.  
  
"Drop 'em." He commanded.  
  
"What?!" Jonathan squeaked.  
  
"Drop your bloody trousers or I'll rip 'em off myself!"  
  
Jonathan began whimpering again as he undid his belt, gasping at the sharp sensations zinging through his buttocks as he delicately tweased his filthy, sweaty trousers away from his body. He cried out when he accidentally snagged one of the sharp glass splinters buried in his butt.  
  
"Big baby," Stephen mumbled under his breath.  
  
"Yeouch! I don't suppose there's any chance of you keeping this to yourself? I mean, it would be slightly embarrassing..."  
  
Stephen smiled evilly.  
  
"It's a rather delicate matter, as I'm sure you can appreciate..." Jonathan continued, bending over gently to allow his friend a better view of his bottom.  
  
"Oh yes, it's delicate alright," Stephen agreed as he went for the largest of the pieces and grasped it between his thumb and forefinger. "Unfortunately I never did master the art of being 'delicate'..." and he ripped it out with a quick tug.  
  
Jonathan roared.  
  
"Shush!" Stephen admonished, flinging the little splinter away and putting a finger to his lips. Not that Jonathan could see the gesture, what with having his back turned to him and his eyes tightly squeezed shut against the pain. "It's just like ripping off a band aid- quick and painless."  
  
"Painless my arse!" Jonathan hissed under his breath, with unintentional irony.  
  
"Oh stop your whining, you're making it seem much worse than it is."  
  
One by one he extracted the remaining shards of green glass, Jonathan gritting his teeth and letting out the occasional stifled yelp. When he had pulled out the last one he stood looking at Jonathan's mangled flesh, peppered with puncture wounds and bleeding slightly. With a malicious gleam in his eye he slapped him on his red rump.  
  
"All done!"  
  
Jonathan fainted.  
  
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A/N: Ok, sorry to delay the inevitable, but I promise they will get back and find out what Evy has to say eventually! But I've got a few more chapters first... hope you're not getting bored! 


	6. A little Lesson in House Breaking

A/N: Hey all you guys! Sorry, this is a long chapter...I keep trying to tell them how to get home, but they just keep going off the other way and getting into more trouble! Silly buggers...  
  
Imhotep's Lover: You star! I cant believe you are always the first to review! You have a very special place in the little chambered muscle straining away in my thoracic cavity. [Get away from her you BITCH! She's my reviewer!] I have no idea what you mean about talking to myself though...  
  
nefertirioc: Glad my poor attempts at humour continue to tickle you in places other toothbrushes find it hard to reach. I might well go and read that fic you recommended- if I can ever find it based on your vague description...!  
  
Marybug6otnile: words just don't cut it when it comes to describing my appreciation towards you...all your sound advice, such ancient wisdom from such a tender youth... *blinks back threat of tears* and Viscount Carmen Vermicelli di Angelo, aka Sid the Sicilian Cameleon, has finally been located and is now safely installed in my sock drawer (cheers for the tip- but my house is a bloody mess!!) He is currently a dingy greyish colour with little fluffy bobbles on, having skilfully camouflaged himself against my tennis socks.  
  
EvelynC.O: don't worry about the review that didn't come up- its there now, and that's what counts. Yay! I got my target number of reviews! Ta very much.  
  
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Chapter 7  
  
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Jonathan, lying face down on the dusty floor of the underground cellar with his poor, punctured white bottom sticking up in the air in a most undignified manner, had started to snore.  
  
Stephen prodded him gently with his brown leather brogue.  
  
"Hey, sleepy head-" there was no response so he kicked him a little harder. "Oi! Get your sorry arse up or we're gonna make an interesting spectacle at a double hanging!"  
  
Jonathan snorted, mumbled something about fish finger sandwiches, and went back to snoring. A little silken thread of drool glistened in the early morning sunlight filtering through the broken cellar cover.  
  
Stephen looked around for something to throw over him, and his eye landed on a large barrel standing in the corner. He went over to it, ripped the lid off, and the strong, pungently acrid aroma that immediately rushed up into his nostrils made him reel back in shock.  
  
"Cor blimey!" he muttered, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Waving his hand over the mouth of the barrel in a vain attempt to disperse the fumes, he looked down at its contents; some sort of fermenting, fruity pulp. The solid organic matter had sunk to the bottom, leaving a clear, dark liquid on the top.  
  
Stephen wrapped his huge muscled arms around the barrel in a bear hug, rocked it up onto its edge and hefted it across the floor. He rested it next to Jonathan's unconscious form, placing it just the right distance away to lower the rim down above his head.  
  
"Heh heh heh, you always did love a drink Johnny," he cackled as he let the weight of the barrel tip itself over, spilling a torrent of gleaming red fig wine onto Jonathan's gently snoring head.  
  
The effect was instantaneous, and not good.  
  
"AAAAAaaaaaargh! Ack!" Jonathan screeched, waking with a violent start, spluttering and gargling on the potently alcoholic juice.  
  
"It burns! It burns!" he wailed, getting to his knees and mashing his fists into his eye sockets, trying to rid them of the stinging fluid streaming down his hair and onto his face.  
  
"Don't be daft, its only-"  
  
"Aaaaargh! It feels like acid! Get it off me! Get it of meeeeeeee!!!" jumping to his feet and waving his arms out beside him, as if suddenly under some sort of delusion that he possessed the ability to fly. Trying to shake the liquid from his drenched head and shoulders he started shuffling and pirouetting about, not particularly gracefully at that. He was only able to take tiny waddling steps, his feet being fettered by the trousers still lying around his ankles. He seemed to have forgotten that fact for the moment.  
  
Suddenly, with a Laurel-and-Hardy-like comical clumsiness, his feet became tangled, his knees gave way and his upper body pitched forward, arms pin wheeling uselessly. Then his screwed shut eyes flew open in an overly exaggerated look of shock as he landed face down on the floor- again.  
  
Thankfully there were no bottles or broken glass directly beneath him.  
  
"Ow," he said faintly with the little breath left in his lungs.  
  
"Jon, you should do kid's birthday parties!" Stephen croaked out between fits of raucous laughter, completely forgetting his earlier warning about the need to avoid noise.  
  
"Shut up or sod off," Jonathan said sternly, getting his breath, and his sense of pride, back with a sobering effort.  
  
"Fine, I'll just leave you to sort your own mess out, shall I?"  
  
"Anything would be better than this humiliation..." Jonathan muttered into the dusty floor, bracing his palms against it to push himself up. With a long, painstaking effort- push-ups were Stephen's forte, not his- he managed to get himself into some sort of unseemly squat, careful not to hurt his bare, mutilated backside.  
  
With a look of forced composure he grabbed his trousers by the belt loops and yanked them back up into place. He even managed not to wince- too much.  
  
Evidently the wine in his eyes wasn't causing him as much irritation as he had made out. He licked his lips, which were stained bright fuscia like a strumpet's rouge, and looked presently surprised at the taste of the partially fermented juice on them.  
  
"Hmmm," he mused with the self important air of a connoisseur, "the bouquet leaves a little to be desired, but it will be a full bodied little number when it's matured."  
  
"Yes, you like 'em full bodied, don't you Johnny boy?" Stephen replied with a saucy wink, thinking of the lovely Zeelah with her generously proportioned assets, who Jonathan had earlier claimed his undying love for.  
  
Jonathan flashed him a mischievously debonair look that said 'you're not wrong there my friend!' before clapping his hands and rubbing them together with renewed purpose.  
  
"Right, let's get out of here." He said briskly.  
  
"By the stairs?" Stephen enquired, pointing to the more conventional way back up to the street.  
  
"And end up right back were we started? I think not!"  
  
"Ok smarty pants, what exactly do you suggest we do?" Stephen asked in a patronising tone, as if he were talking to a particularly bossy five year old.  
  
"I say we see what's behind door number two." Jonathan hoiked a thumb in the direction of the inner door, leading to god knew what on the other side.  
  
Stephen closed his eyes and slowly brought a palm up to cover them in a look of despair and disbelief.  
  
"Johnny, that's called breaking and entering!"  
  
"No, technically we've already broken the door, now we're just entering," Jonathan said with a smug grin.  
  
"I knew you'd have some clever dick answer. You're such a-"  
  
"Alright, you'll have all the time in the world to insult my good name later," Jonathan interrupted, "how about we just concentrate on saving our hides first, huh?" He had another one of those annoyingly prim expressions on his face, that in his present state he really didn't have the dignity to carry off.  
  
"Look," Stephen tried to reason, "it's past dawn now, everyone will be waking up soon. I don't know about you, but I don't fancy bumping in to any more of the locals," he emphasised this last word, making a stabbing gesture with his fist clenched around an imaginary machete.  
  
"Well we'd better get our skates on then, before the whole bloody city realises what we're up to."  
  
"Whatever. Just remember that I was the voice of reason here." Stephen said self righteously.  
  
"Just like my dear baby sister. You two would make a lovely couple, if you didn't nag each other to death!" Jonathan teased, aiming a playful thump at Stephen's arm.  
  
His cheeks coloured a little at the mention of Evelyn, who Jonathan knew perfectly well he had a bit of a crush on. If he hadn't felt slightly sorry for all the pain Jonathan had endured that night, Stephen would have decked him then and there. Instead he just rolled his eyes in a 'here we go again' expression, and followed Jonathan towards the door, like an obedient Labrador following his master into a minefield.  
  
Jonathan tiptoed over to the high, crumbling step, stealthily crept up onto it, and tried the door handle.  
  
"Well bugger me........." he whispered.  
  
"What? What's wrong now?!" Stephen hissed back.  
  
"It's open." Jonathan chuckled at his friend's rapidly fraying nerves as he gently creaked the door open, and peeked out.  
  
The darkness on the other side was complete. Not even the glow of a gas lamp or the wan light of day spilling in through a shuttered window. All they could make out from the meagre illumination afforded by the beam of sun falling through the hole into the cellar behind them, were walls. Two cracked and rough plastered walls framing a narrow corridor.  
  
"Come on Stevie," Jonathan enjoined, just before he slipped past the threshold and into the unknown interior of the building.  
  
"You're crazy."  
  
And then Stephen stepped into the hallway behind him.  
  
************************************  
  
Blackness... less like a shade of night than an entity. A breathing thing like a blackened lung, oppressive with it's weight and thickness, saturating, clogging and malignant. It binds, holds and squeezes like a vice upon the heart... the breath begins to rasp in the throat, the blood rushing in the ears...  
  
Aisha began to thrash more wildly in her narrow, rickety bed, the thread bare sheets twisting between her frantically kicking legs. She let a tiny moan escape her as she looked on the nightmare unfolding before her sleeping eyes...  
  
...at the edge of the dark, out of the shroud of creeping fog, angular and alien things lurking in the gloom at the limits of consciousness... their spikey limbs assembling into the skeletons of huge mechanical spiders, a tangled mass of brightly painted spokes and wheels... bristling cogs like row upon row of serrated teeth gleaming malevolently in the dark. The darkness teems with demonic eyes that grow bigger and bigger until everything is filled with them, held within them, and the night is nothing more than a glistening black forest of eyes... unblinking, unpitying...closer, closer... jagged maws gaping wide...  
  
"Ab! An najada!" she cried out, jolting awake to the peaceful, early morning silence of her own room. She blinked at the light, a painful contrast to the all pervading darkness of her nightmare, which was already beginning to recede at the insistence of another awareness. The pressure of her bladder.  
  
Aisha slowly swung her feet around to the side of the bed, lowered them to the floor where her slippers awaited her, and unsteadily levered herself up. Her long white nightgown fell in loose folds to the floor, here and there the translucency of the material interrupted by a patched tear. She went to the chair and retrieved her shawl, throwing it around her slim shoulders, and clasped the ends tightly to her breast.  
  
Then she tiptoed to the door and slowly pulled it open, not wanting to wake her father with the rude screech of rusty hinges.  
  
***********************************  
  
Jonathan and Stephen had come to a short staircase at the end of the hall, leading up to another door. Light filtered to them from the crack beneath it, but having listened with his ear pressed against it for a good few minutes, Jonathan had decided it was safe to proceed.  
  
Now they were standing in a small, well equipped kitchen. Jonathan's eyes lit up at the sight of a bowl filled with dates, figs and pomegranates standing in the middle of the counter.  
  
"Jeez, I'm famished, aren't you Stevie?" he said hungrily, reaching out towards them and trying to keep his tongue in his head.  
  
"Don't even think about it."  
  
"But couldn't we just.....?" he persisted.  
  
"NO!"  
  
"Alright EVY, don't have an aneurysm." Jonathan huffed, smiling slightly at having carried out his threat.  
  
Stephen made a rude hand gesture.  
  
"Shut up and let's just get outta here!" he hissed through clenched teeth. Stephen was on absolute tenterhooks, at any minute expecting to be caught sneaking around and face yet more Arabic wrath.  
  
"Fine. Maybe Evy will cook me breakfast when I get home."  
  
"If she doesn't kill you, you mean?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sure I can find some way of smoothing her over. After all, I am her favourite older brother!" Jonathan said cheerfully, confident in his ability to appeal to his sister's soft nature.  
  
"Thank god she's only got the one." Stephen said in a tone dripping with sarcasm.  
  
Leaving the kitchen undisturbed, they made their way out into another hallway. At the end of it they could see a heavy wooden door, leading to the outside world.  
  
"See Stephen- our salvation is within sight."  
  
**************************************  
  
Aisha came to the top of the stairs, grasped the rail and lowered one foot to descend. She halted it in mid air at the sound of voices coming from the kitchen.  
  
"Maaza qult?" she gasped, not recognising their speech. As she stood frozen at the top of the stairs, the door to the kitchen opened, and two strange men walked out into the hallway.  
  
**************************************  
  
A/N: I know this is a really mean way to end the chapter, but if I go into the next bit now then it will be far too long! Don't kill me, I can make it up to you!  
  
Translation of Arabic;  
  
Ab! An najada!- Father! Help me!  
  
Maaza qult?- What was that?  
  
And something I forgot to explain in a previous chapter;  
  
Man hunaak?- Who's there?  
  
Anyway, if anyone wants to pick me up on my Arabic, please do. I only got it from a phrase book, and I don't object to corrections, if they are sensible. 


	7. A Cunning Linguist

Disclaimer: I do not own Merlene Dietrich, and mean her no disrespect whatsoever! Just thought I'd clear that up in case she has any relatives who want to sue me.  
  
A/N: I just want to thank Nefertirioc, who was my first reviewer for chapter 7 (well she beat you to it Jess- you'll have to try harder next time I'm afraid!) I read the first 2 chapters of the fic you recommended neffie, and it's really good!  
  
Now on with it, before I forget what's going on...  
  
*******************************************************  
  
Chapter 8  
  
*******************************************************  
  
"Now, what are we going to say when we see Evy?" Jonathan asked casually, not even bothering to lower his voice now that they were almost home free, so to speak. "We have to get our stories straight, come up with something plausible and blameless, so the old battleaxe doesn't have anything to-"  
  
Someone whimpered quietly in the darkness of the hall, and for once it wasn't Jonathan.  
  
Stephen's frown of disapproval suddenly melted, to be replaced with a tight lipped, wide eyed expression, somewhat reminiscent of a peasant caught trespassing in the manor house. "What in God's name was that?" he whispered, whirling around on his toes to look about him.  
  
A gasp came from just above them and to the right, from the top of the staircase.  
  
******  
  
Aisha's foot still hovered above the second step, unable to proceed for sheer terror. She stood motionless and mute as a statue, like a marble Aphrodite with her gauzy white nightgown falling to her ankles in vertical folds. Her right hand tightly gripping the banister and her left hanging limply at her side, she remained that way as the two men appeared in the hallway beneath her.  
  
The shorter, dark haired man spoke. His loud, confident voice shattered her paralysis, and she shivered, nearly losing her footing on the stairs. She, a girl only just seventeen, was all alone in a room with two strange men; thieves, perhaps abductors...  
  
Suddenly her father's overbearing presence seemed painfully absent. Since her mother passed away he had become more overly protective than ever, not even allowing her to be alone with the man she was promised to, even though she had known him all her life. Her only contact with men was limited to her immediate family, so she could not help but let out an involuntary cry of terror at the thought of intruders in the house.  
  
The dark haired one, who was almost at the door, hand raised to draw back the bolt, paused in mid action. Both men whipped round in her direction.  
  
The threat of discovery caused her to take in a sharp breath, which caught in her throat and would not rush out again. They hadn't seen her yet, a pale conspicuous shape looming over them, but they would. She could try to run, she could call out, but in the end she did neither of these things.  
  
The blonde man suddenly transfixed her with a piercing blue stare. She had been seen.  
  
******  
  
It took Jonathan a few seconds more to realise what Stephen was staring at, but when he did his reaction was very different to that of his petrified companion.  
  
"I say!" Jonathan exclaimed appreciatively, with a hushed wolf whistle. His eyes travelled up the stairs to her feet, up the diaphanous folds of her nightgown to her slim waist, up to her small, pert breasts, and rested there.  
  
"What was I saying earlier- 'will be a full bodied little number when matured'? I think I stand by that statement.." Jonathan said with a smirk, prompting Stephen to laugh at his joke with a nudge in the ribs. Stephen was still staring upwards, as motionless as the girl whose terrified eyes were locked with his. Jonathan had yet to get as far up as her face.  
  
The jab in his side brought Stephen back to himself, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
"Don't be afraid, we're not going to harm you," he said gently, raising his hands palms up in the traditional military surrender. It was the first time he had ever been forced to do so by a young girl. "We're just going to leave now...nobody else has to know we were ever here..." he murmured, lowering his voice until it was barely audible, and taking a step back as if retreating from a sleeping guard dog.  
  
"I can't believe you Stephen, a big tough soldier like you scared by a little girl!" Jonathan sniggered.  
  
"Little girls still have very big lungs, Johnny boy- you want to deal with her father when she screams rape?"  
  
"No, I leave the muscle work to you, normally. I'm more in charge of executive decisions, contingency plans... that sort of thing." Jonathan said, now beginning to back up a few paces to stay level with him. The door was only a few steps behind them, and Jonathan clumsily stuck out his arm to feel for the bolt. In all his long and eventful career as a philanderer, you'd think hasty retreats from darkened hallways would have become easier?  
  
"Just keep moving, Johnny..." Stephen mumbled through gritted teeth, still maintaining eye contact with the pretty, dark eyed girl. "She's not going anywhere."  
  
And then she did- straight back up the hallway in a silent streak of white cotton and streaming black hair.  
  
"Do you think she's gone to get someone?" Jonathan asked anxiously, blindly feeling the door behind him to lay his hands on the latch.  
  
"I bloody hope not. For the love of Mike will you just get that door open before we have to find out?"  
  
Jonathan did as he was told, and made quick work of the bolt, threw the door open and burst out into the sun bathed street. Far down the road to the left he could see where the main bazaar started, with the colourful stalls already set up and open for the day's business. Stephen came up beside him, blinking at the sudden brightness of daylight, and dropped a heavy hand on Jonathan's shoulder as they began to walk towards the market.  
  
"When I get my gun back, remind me to shoot you with it."  
  
******  
  
Bernhardt wandered aimlessly through the tiny, busy streets of Cairo, feeling miserable. It was not yet 11 o'clock and already he had been separated form his party, strayed into the wrong part of town, lost his wallet and passport to a pick pocket, and he couldn't speak a word of Arabic to ask his way to the embassy. Isolated, vulnerable, and on the verge of despair, he was about to attempt communication with one of the locals again when the young German tourist saw a tall, blonde gentleman walking in his direction through the bazaar. His broad shoulders and Arian good looks instantly marked him out from the Egyptian crowd, and it was very reassuring to see a white European face at last.  
  
Bernhardt cut through the milling shoppers and peddlers, past the stalls and laid out wares, and headed straight for him. The tall man had no choice but to stop or knock him down, and with a congenial smile Bernhardt clasped him by the forearm, forced his hand into his palm and looked up into his electric blue eyes.  
  
"Entschuldigen sie bitte mein Herr, sind sie aus Deutschland?" he said, feeling fairly confident he was speaking to a fellow German.  
  
The blonde man looked at him with incomprehension, and Bernhardt's brief glimmer of hope was extinguished. He slumped his shoulders in disappointment, smiled an apologetic thank you, and dropped the man's hand. He was turning to go, continuing his search for someone who could help him, when he heard the most wonderful, comforting sound in the whole world: his own language. Sort of.  
  
"Hang on there just a minute, uh. Ich spreche ein bißchen!" A voice called after him in a very pronounced English accent.  
  
Bernhardt could have leapt for joy- finally, someone he could ask for help. He turned round to look into the tanned, slightly smudgy face of a dark haired man, about his height, but much slighter of build. He was wearing a rather filthy jacket and trousers. He hesitated from calling it a suit, for he couldn't be sure if they had ever actually matched; the jacket was tinted bright pink from lapels to pockets, and the trousers were, well, it was impossible to say which was the dominant colour in the veritable smorgasbord of stains presented there. On top of all that, he smelt like the rancid runoff from a wine press. But Bernhardt was in no position to be choosy.  
  
"Können Sie mir bitte helfen? Ich besuche der Deutsche Botschaft- ich habe mein Reisepaß verloren!" he said throwing his arms in the air exasperatedly.  
  
"Ja, er..." the man was obviously no native German speaker, but he was making a valiant attempt, and Bernhardt was extremely grateful. "...um, Botschaft? Consulate, embassy, right? Let me think..." The bumbling Brit scratched his head and held his chin, as if fidgeting helped him to think. Bernhardt wasn't sure if it was the location of the embassy or the task of putting the directions into words that was giving him more trouble.  
  
"Well, er..." the Englishman squinted into the distance and made a chopping hand signal, indicating the direction in front of him. "I think- Gehen Sie immergerade aus für... oh, a couple of hundred yards- I mean, uh, zwei hundert metres..."  
  
Bernhardt nodded, following the man's alternating languages and halting pronunciation quite adequately, and motioned for him to continue.  
  
"Und dann, uh, nimm die erste straße links, then die dritte straße rechts, gehe über die Brücke, und- oh, uh, dammit.... what's the word I want?" He bit his lip and searched the blinding Cairo sky for an answer, then suddenly waved his arms excitedly. "Oh, oh! I know, gegenüber, that's it! Der Botschaft ist gegenüber von sportplatz!" He announced with a note of triumph, theatrically extending his palms, fingers splayed, in a kind of 'voila!' gesture.  
  
Bernhardt had never been so relieved to meet a filthy, liquor soaked sot in all his life. He thanked him profusely, pumping his hand up and down enthusiastically in the most grateful handshake he had ever performed, and disappeared into the dense, multi coloured street crowd.  
  
******  
  
"I didn't know you could speak German!" Stephen hissed a little accusingly. Being a soldier hadn't made him particularly enamoured of that nation, and those of his company who had lost friends, relatives and comrades-in-arms in the Great War- it seemed there were very few who hadn't- were even less forgiving. Jonathan failed to pick up on his thinly veiled contempt.  
  
"Oh, didn't you know? I once spent a very enjoyable summer in Berlin with an actress named...Oh crikey, what was her damn name? Marie? Marlene? Marlene something or other." He said with a shrug and a dismissive wave of the hand. Stephen's eyes lost their resentment and brightened with interest. A mischievous smile played at the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Marlene...Dietrich?" He said jokingly.  
  
"Yes! That's the one. Lovely bum."  
  
"You Lie!" Stephen retorted, sure Jonathan was pulling his leg.  
  
"I am not! She had a lovely little bottom, long legs- bit scary though. She had this look that could freeze the blood in your veins like iced water."  
  
"You did NOT screw Marlene Dietrich!" Stephen said with an ironic little laugh. There was no way he was going to let Jonathan fool him into thinking he had once had an affair with the latest Hollywood sensation!  
  
"What's it to you anyway? She's not YOUR wife!" Jonathan shot back, really not sure why his friend was making such a big deal about one of his past flings.  
  
"You mean she was already married at the time?!" Stephen cried in astonishment. He was not quite ready to believe it, but it certainly was starting to sound more and more like Jonathan.  
  
"You know me, I never bother with the details..." Jonathan said blithely, completely oblivious to the profoundly altering effect his claims were having on Stephen's perception of him. Stephen looked like he was battling to sort out his reaction, somewhere between incredulity, amusement and admiration.  
  
"Are you actually trying to tell me that you had a thing with Merlene Dietrich, THE Marlene Dietrich from the movies?" Stephen said very slowly and deliberately, wanting to get out each word clearly so there could be absolutely no misunderstanding. The affable but easily affronted Englishman looked at him with feigned indignation  
  
"What, you don't think I'm a handsome chap? I'll have you know that I was voted most eligible bachelor in my first year at Oxford-"  
  
"Don't change the bloody subject! Did you or did you not have an affair with Marlene Dietrich?!" Stephen demanded.  
  
"I don't know! Her last name COULD have been Dietrich, I never really asked..."  
  
Stephen closed his eyes and smiled, revelling in his victory. He knew it! If there was any opportunity for embroidering a story with a bit of excitement and glamour, Jonathan was quick to jump at it. He cuffed him on the ear and laughed while Jonathan did his best not to look sheepish.  
  
"Come on Casanova, lets get you home before you get us into anymore trouble." He tugged him by the grubby sleeve and the two of them jostled their way forwards through the crowd, heading in the direction they had just sent the German tourist.  
  
"What in god's name did you say to that guy anyway?" Stephen asked in a laughing tone, still rather taken aback by the revelations brought to light by Jonathan's linguistic skills. He had definitely learnt a thing or two about his friend in the last 24 hours, for one he certainly had never thought of Jonathan as the foreign languages type. That was Evy's department. In fact Jonathan hardly seemed to make any use at all of the intelligence he had been born with- not for any legal purpose anyway.  
  
"You know what, Stevie? I have abso-lutley noooooo idea!"  
  
Evidently Stephen's first guess had been right.  
  
**************************************************************************** ********  
  
A/N: Do you want a translation? Do you really care? This time I didn't get it out of a phrase book, its all from my memory of GCSE German about 6 years ago. So if I made lots of mistakes...frankly my dear, I don't give a flying! Jonathan isn't supposed to know what he's talking about anyway! Is it getting random enough for you yet? I thought this was gonna end at about 10 chapters, but I can see it spiralling into an ironic epic of our two anti-heroes! 


	8. Happy Homecoming?

A/N: To my newest reviewer, Bachy A- nice to have you with me! Its always great to know someone who is a good author likes my story. I cant wait for you to write another Mummy fic- is there one in the pipeline? I hope so.  
  
Jess: Beaten to it again! What's happened to you, hon? *kiddin* Glad you liked the Weakest Link chapter, and I cant wait to read what you added to it! If it's a successful collaboration maybe we could do more in the future...?  
  
Nefertirioc: Jonathan is not a Paedophile! She is 17 after all... (legal age in Britain is 16, so what's your problem?) hahaha. Hope you don't get followed by any more freaky men *makes scared face*  
  
****************************************  
  
Chapter 9  
  
****************************************  
  
The two ne'er-do-wells ambled their way home after their eventful night (and morning) out on the tiles, preferring to stroll at their leisure after all their exertions. Stephen tried his best to block out the incessant sound of Jonathan's voice, as he kept harping on about his stomach and reliving every twist and turn of the last few hours. At some point he stopped for a kebab, purchased with the last of his winnings, which shut him up for a little while. But Stephen actually felt a little queasy at the sight of Jonathan shovelling the greasy meat into his mouth, wondering exactly what part of what animal it could possibly be.  
  
The dirty, maze-like streets of old Cairo soon gave way to the broad lanes and cul-de-sacs of the predominantly British Garden City quarter. Palatial embassies and swanky private residences in the Art Deco style lazed languidly in the morning sun, their landscaped English gardens sweeping down to the banks of the Nile. Sauntering up the Corniche road, Stephen and Jonathan could hear the river traffic and the gently lapping waves at the passing of a feluccas, and before they knew it they were standing in front of the stately Egyptian Antiquities Museum.  
  
On any other day at lunchtime, Evy would be chained to her desk, hidden behind a huge stack of books to be re-shelved, date stamp in one hand and half eaten sandwich in the other. But today was Sunday, her one day off (barring the odd spectacular mishap which often obliged her to put in an extra day). The two of them might have to think fast if they ran into her at home, but their sole preoccupation at that moment was to find a soft bed and collapse onto it, so they carried on past the museum, continuing up the bank of the Nile until they reached the Zamalek bridge. They crossed over onto the island where the Carnahans had owned a villa for the last ten years, and headed in the direction of it.  
  
""What's the date today, Stevie?" Jonathan asked suddenly, breaking with his usual idle monologue.  
  
"July eighteenth. Why?" Stephen answered after a moment, snapping out of his daze as he realised he was required to respond.  
  
"Oh, no reason...it's just so I know what the second half of my tombstone will look like..."  
  
"Right, mine too," Stephen said with a mirthless laugh, suddenly reminded of the depressing inevitability of his impending court marshal.  
  
"You've got a few years on me though, Stephen old man." Jonathan laughed, clapping him on the back.  
  
"You must be joking! You might be able to convince all those silly girls back in England you're only twenty nine, but I've seen your passport! It's the big four-o in a few years, isn't it Johnny?"  
  
"Not at this rate it bloody isn't! Evy is going to have my guts for garters..."  
  
Stephen's pupils dilated in a long, glazed stare at the image that sentence conjured up- Evelyn's slim, stockinged legs, her creamy thigh encircled by a little lacy white garter ... he could just imagine teasing it down with his teeth, over her knee and finely shaped calf to her slim ankle...  
  
He was jolted back to reality by Jonathan's impatiently snapping fingers just centimetres from his face.  
  
"Earth to zonko! Where are you Stevie?" he teased, clicking his fingers in Stephen's eyes, making him blink in surprise.  
  
Stephen lashed out with the flat of his palm and swatted at Jonathan like a mosquito.  
  
"Oh, there you are..." Jonathan mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. "What were you thinking about? From the inane smile on your face it must have been something worth telling."  
  
"I was just thinking how much I'm going to enjoy watching Evelyn dismember you." He said sardonically, gesturing towards the rather expensive Savile Row shirt Evy had bought him, once crisp white, now rather more cerise with the occasional blot of lamb kebab. Not to mention the wide slash Khalid had so expertly carved across it, exposing a substantial portion of Jonathan's skinny white flesh.  
  
"I'm not letting you get anywhere near my dear baby sister with your member," Jonathan scoffed, smiling wickedly at the immediate colouring of Stephen's cheeks.  
  
"Shut up! Why do you always have to be so crude?" Stephen retorted indignantly, turning away so Jonathan wouldn't see the expression on his face. Jonathan's jaw dropped in a look of mock disbelief.  
  
"And this coming from a solder, no less! Ever heard the expression 'swears like a trooper'? You lot bloody well invented crudeness!" he laughed, nudging him in the ribs.  
  
"Yeah, but you seem to have taken up the baton and run with it, eh Jonathan?" Stephen nudged him back, but his smile was less jovial. "Look, just ease up, alright? I don't fancy Evelyn, and even if I did, I wouldn't do anything about it. I'm well aware of the fact that a nice, respectable girl like her is far too good for me." He looked genuinely contrite at that fact, perhaps regretting the life that had barred him from ever winning such a girl as Evelyn Carnahan.  
  
Jonathan was never one to feel such remorse, perhaps because he had never felt anything was too good for him, and failed to notice the hint of sadness in his friend.  
  
"Well, you just remember that my son, and I'll never have to give you a good sound beating," he said matter-of-factly. It was true he had led a bit of a charmed life, but he just didn't know when to quit.  
  
"You? Give ME a beating? That's a good one Johnny!" and Stephen clouted him on the ear playfully, initiating another bout of tomfoolery in the middle of the street. However, these streets were rather more quiet and empty of locals, being in the affluent area of Zamalek favoured by most ex-pats, and with the mood once again lightened, they made their way back to the villa unmolested.  
  
***  
  
Jonathan set one tentative foot in the hallway and motioned for Stephen to follow, his finger pressed to his lips in a silencing gesture. Even though it was almost one o'clock in the afternoon, he might just be in luck and find Evy taking a nap, allowing them to slip in undetected. He tiptoed across the tiled mosaic floor towards the staircase, and almost made it...  
  
"Where in heaven's name have you BEEN??!!" came an irate female voice from the doorway to their left. Jonathan flinched and clenched his teeth, knowing perfectly well they had been caught out. With one eye open he turned to face the owner of the voice, and stared into his sister's withering gaze.  
  
"Oh, morning sis!" he said cheerily, relaxing his shoulders and acting as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.  
  
"Afternoon you mean! What do you think you are doing crawling home at this time of day? I've been worried sick!"  
  
"Oh, just a spot of trouble with the car," he lied, "you know the damn thing sometimes..." he knew that wouldn't go a very long way to explaining his current state of dress, or account for why he had been gone for the best part of seventeen hours.  
  
"Don't try to fool me Jonathan, your car is in the garage. But never mind that, I'm not interested in your pathetic excuses! I need to talk to you about something-"  
  
"That sounds ominous..." Jonathan said warily. He knew that face of hers, and now he almost wished she would launch into the third degree if only it would put off whatever she seemed anxious to discuss with him.  
  
"I had a visit this morning..."  
  
"Oh yes? Anyone I know?" Jonathan asked innocently.  
  
"I should say so- in the biblical sense, from the look of it! She was in rather a delicate condition..."  
  
"What...?"  
  
"She was with child Jonathan!!"  
  
"Evy, I don't have the foggiest what you're talking about, old mum!"  
  
"Jonathan, a pregnant woman walked into the museum today, looking for the father of her child! Do you have any idea why she might have chosen that specific place in particular?"  
  
"Because she wanted to ask directions to the military fort?" Jonathan quipped. Realising his sister had indeed been at the library earlier, most likely to straighten up some heinous catastrophe of her making, he couldn't resist the urge to wind her up even more.  
  
"No! She was looking for you! And as if that wasn't bad enough, she was a woman of... dubious virtue, so to speak." Evy said in a tactful tone. Her cheeks were flushed, but whether from anger or embarrassment Jonathan wasn't sure.  
  
"I should say so! A bun in the oven and no ring on her finger? Tut tut." Jonathan replied, wagging his finger with a mock frown on his face.  
  
"No that's not what I mean, Jonathan! She was... how shall I say? A 'lady of the night'."  
  
"Evy, please start making sense soon, I'm very tired..." he said with a pained expression, stifling a pretend yawn that soon turned into a genuine one.  
  
"Are you being deliberately obtuse?! Jonathan, she was a common street walker, a-" Evelyn lowered her voice and leaned in closer, "a PROSTITUTE!" she hissed accusingly. "She said you've ruined her livelihood and she wants five hundred pounds!"  
  
"Well what a coincidence- isn't that a coincidence, Stevie?" he said over his shoulder, throwing a glance to where his friend was standing dumbly in the doorway, eyeing Evy with the awkward shyness of a teenager. There was no question as to why his cheeks were flushed. "That's exactly the amount I won last night!" Jonathan exclaimed, starting to see a connection between the two. "Funny that someone should show up the very next morning and demand the same amount..."  
  
"You mean stole! Or cheated, which amounts to the same thing." Evy countered reprovingly, ignoring his half formed musings.  
  
"Evy my dear, there's a whole world of difference between stealing and cheating. Cheating requires skill, finesse, and no small amount of cunning. Stealing is what dirty little street urchins do, not a gentleman like myself-"  
  
"Jonathan I don't give a fig for your tricky semantics, its dishonest and that's that!" Evy announced self righteously, jabbing a finger at his filthy shirt. "And what on earth happened to this?!" she said in a tone of abject disgust, rubbing her fingers together where they had just touched him. "No, don't tell me- I really don't want to know. I've had just about as much as I can take of you Jonathan Carnahan!"  
  
"Oh, don't be like that Evy, old girl!"  
  
"Don't you try to wheedle your way around me! You've already dragged your own name through the mud, I will not let you do the same to mine!" she slapped him on the side of the head a little harder than she had meant to, then immediately stroked his grubby face in remorse.  
  
"How could you, Jonathan?" she said more gently, starting in on the guilt trip after the initial reprimand. "A common...tart! It'll ruin us if it ever gets out, and even if it doesn't- all Daddy's money going to cover up for your foolish indiscretions, I cant bear it!" Her eyes shone wetly with the onset of tears, and Jonathan suddenly did feel very guilty. Not because he thought for one minute that this so called 'lady of the night' was carrying his progeny, but because he was quite sure this whole thing somehow traced back to Khalid and the cheated five hundred pounds.  
  
"Evy, its all just a terrible mistake, I promise," he said consolingly, tenderly caressing her reddened cheeks.  
  
"Well I hope for your sake it is, Jonathan."  
  
So do I, Jonathan thought worriedly. With a pinched expression Evy swiped his hands away from her face and turned to go.  
  
"And another thing- before you get into those clean sheets I've just put on your bed, for heaven's sake take a shower!" And with her last word on the subject, she picked up her book and went out onto the patio.  
  
Dejectedly Jonathan went out into the hallway and tapped Stephen's jaw shut- he had been goldfishing again, something he was prone to do whenever he found himself superfluous to the situation unfolding around him. Then he silently ushered the exhausted soldier upstairs towards one of the guest bedrooms.  
  
**************************************************************************** *****  
  
A/N: He he, even when he's finally home Johnny is never far from trouble! Told you this was going to be epic... this new plot twist could go on for a while! 


	9. The Night After The Morning Before

A/N: To my dear Cosmogenes, I just wanted to say su moi ton megiston philon ei- s'agapo! (if there are any ancient Greeks out there, please don't be too harsh on my grammar, but I believe that means 'you are the greatest friend to me- I love you!') Your emails and reviews always brighten my day, so yay for you!  
  
Lauren: You're so funny! Why do I always worry when I manage to find someone who seems to share my sense of humour...? Coz there's another crayzee out there somewhere, that's why! Hahaha, love your stories.  
  
Jess: Judging from the reviews I think we did a very successful job of that weakest link chapter- team work, eh? But no, I didn't get in there before Deana (damn that girl!) oh well, there are worse things in life... bad hair days... Anne Robinson...  
  
Recap: We join our hero after a fairly eventful night out, and some rather astounding news! What piteous misadventures will he get up to now?  
  
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Chapter 10  
  
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Jonathan woke to a bright light streaming in through his bedroom window- not daylight, but the headlamps of a motorcar hurtling down the hill towards the villa. He recognised that magnificent purring engine and the reckless screech of tires as the brand new Bentley pulled up in the front drive. Dickie had arrived to pick him up.  
  
Jonathan swung his legs out of bed and shuffled towards the sliver of light indicating the doorway to the hall. His head was fuzzy and his eyelids heavy, but he seemed to have out-manoeuvred the hangover by being sober when he had eventually collapsed into bed. That and drinking a couple of pints of water beforehand, which he now desperately had to relieve himself of.  
  
He blinked blearily as he opened the door and was assaulted by the brightness of the landing. Eyes half open he staggered towards the bathroom, barefoot in just his silk PJs, and groped for the scrolled brass handle. It took him a couple of seconds of bashing his shoulder against the hard wooden panel to realise it was locked.  
  
"Evy?" he called in a sleepy voice, still half conscious. There was no answer. The uncomfortable fullness of his bladder was starting to wake him up properly now, and if he didn't empty it immediately he thought it might just burst. He knocked gently.  
  
"Evy, I need to inspect the plumbing..." he said euphemistically, knowing his sister's distaste for vulgarity in such matters. Still no answer, and he was getting desperate now, crossing his legs and biting his lip. "Evy, is that you in there?" This time he thought he could hear a faint noise; if she was pretending not to be in there to save her blushes, she was just going to have to deal with it.  
  
"Look I'm not kidding, I'm going to piss myself!" Tact out the window he banged on the door again, harder this time. "I don't care what it smells like!"  
  
"Jonathan, what on earth are you making all that racquet for?" Evy chided in her matronly tone, stalking up the stairs behind him. Jonathan's head whipped round in confusion, wondering how the only other person in the house could be on his side of the door. Then a look of recollection suddenly dawned on his face. He turned back and began hammering the quaking door with both fists.  
  
"STEPHEN!! Have you fallen asleep on the toilet or something?" he yelled, all consideration and patience now completely dispensed with. His question was greeted with a groan. "Look, I have to take a pi-" Jonathan took one look at Evy's thunderous expression and decided to moderate his colourful language. "I need to relieve myself."  
  
"Bugger off..." came the faint reply.  
  
"Oh charming!" Evy huffed, before flicking her long dark hair and storming back down the staircase.  
  
"Now just look what you've done- you've upset Evelyn!" Jonathan sniggered with fleeting amusement. Then his immediate priority made him wince again. "I don't care what state you're in, if you don't open this door right now I'm going to tell her that you fancy her rotten!" After listening intently for a few seconds, still he could hear no movement. "STEPHEN!!"  
  
"Alright, don't shout... I'm getting up," Stephen rasped hoarsely. The sound of the toilet flushing and a quick burst of water from the tap was proceeded by the minute clicking of the lock. Then Stephen's puffy red face poked around the side of the door.  
  
"At last!" Jonathan sighed in relief as he barged his way past and began to undo the buttons of his pyjamas, not even the remotest hint of modesty. Closing his eyes and smiling at the blessed release, Jonathan urinated while Stephen sagged against the door post, staring blankly out into the hallway.  
  
"Johnny, I feel bloody awful."  
  
"You look pretty awful at that." Jonathan shot back as he finished and readjusted himself. "Is that the contents of your stomach I can smell?"  
  
"Yeah, sorry... I don't know what's happened to me- you know I can usually take my booze." He mumbled, rubbing his eyes with a pained expression. He really did look the worse for wear, but Jonathan was sure that a good swig of his patented hangover cure would fix it- Glen Fiddych, oak matured single malt.  
  
"Well you better snap out of it quick old bean- Dickie Warmsley has just turned up to take us to the game." Sure enough, Evy had just answered the door, admitting the sound of a terribly charming, aristocratic voice that could only belong to the young English Baron.  
  
"I don't think so... you go without me, Jonathan." Stephen grimaced as another wave of nausea washed over him.  
  
"What? Come on partner, we're a team, aren't we?" Jonathan asked, reaching for his toothbrush. He didn't much relish the prospect of a night at Dickie's house, among all those pompous old bores he counted as friends, without Stephen there to liven things up. Dickie was a good sort- and absolutely rolling in it, which was always one of Jonathan's favourite qualities in a friend- but for the most part daft as a brush and dull as dishwater. "'oo've 'ot 'oo puhtect 'ee fom all uh 'ose 'oring old farts," Jonathan said around a mouthful of toothpaste.  
  
"Who's gonna protect you from yourself though, Johnny?"  
  
Jonathan spat into the sink.  
  
"Exactly!"  
  
***  
  
Ten minutes later Jonathan was stepping spryly into the lounge, hair neatly brushed and parted, shirt clean and ironed, shoes brightly polished. There was a dashing grin plastered across his hastily shaven face, and a cheeky glimmer in his eye.  
  
"So, where is he then?" he asked his sister, having expected to find Dickie seated in the room with a glass of scotch. Instead he saw Evy sitting all alone, reading.  
  
"Who?" Evy said, raising her neatly pencilled eyebrows with feigned ignorance. She turned the page of her book and began to read from the top with exaggerated interest.  
  
"Who? What do you mean 'who'? Dickie! Who else?!" Jonathan said, gesticulating with a great flourish of arms and wide eyed impatience. Evelyn looked up thoughtfully.  
  
"I do so dislike that name," she mused with a serious brow, "it sounds somehow...imbecilic. Why doesn't everyone call him Richard as they are supposed to?"  
  
"I don't know, EVELYN, perhaps because it's a god-awful stuffy old name!"  
  
Evy shot him a caustic expression, picking up on his insult to her name and implied accusation of hypocrisy, but mostly because she did not appreciate his blasphemy.  
  
"I told him you wouldn't be able to make it tonight. He went home again." She said primly.  
  
"You did what?!" Jonathan cried in disbelief. Marching towards the coffee table, scuffing the corner of the eighteenth century Persian rug in the process, he snatched up her book and peered down at her irately. "Dickie specifically drove here to pick me up so that he could show me his new car! It was rather rude to send him packing like that..." Evelyn was unperturbed.  
  
"I thought you were indisposed, so I sent him away." She restated calmly, not even looking up from where her book had once rested in her lap. Sensing the beginning of another protest, she sharply raised her head and fixed him with a glare. "No more gambling Jonathan!"  
  
"It's not gambling so much as a couple of friendly games of cards, made slightly more interesting by a small redistribution of property." Jonathan said glibly, suddenly on the defensive, having switched from injured to guilty party with remarkable speed.  
  
"That so called 'small redistribution of property' is why you came home without Daddy's pocket watch that time!" Evy charged him, her voice raised to an accusatory pitch. Her cream complexion was starting to gather that glow that always attended a heated mood, and Jonathan could feel another bout of sermonising about the evils of vice. He rolled his eyes and gave her a wry smile.  
  
"I got it back though, didn't I?"  
  
"No, actually I got it back, if you recall."  
  
"Yes, you never did tell me precisely how you managed that..." Jonathan pressed her with an intrigued look. Evy tilted her chin haughtily and fluttered her lashes in a bored, dismissive look.  
  
"Men were ever more inclined to reason in the face of subtle female persuasion." She replied coolly, revealing nothing.  
  
"Is that a fancy way of saying you blackmailed him?"  
  
"I would never stoop so low as your methods, Jonathan!" her head whipped back to look at her brother in shock and disgust, but there was a naughty twinkle buried beneath all that scorn. "It was more a case of bribery, really." Jonathan's smile widened until his whole face was lit up with a look of delightful discovery.  
  
"You seduced him then! You cunning little minx!" he winked saucily and nudged her crossed leg with his knee, disrupting her comfortable position on the sofa.  
  
"Ooooh! Can't you find someone else to bother?" she complained in a disgruntled voice, recomposing herself and snatching back the book that was still dangling from Jonathan's hand.  
  
"I was just going to go off and do exactly that! But as you seem to have sent my ride away, I'm obliged to ask you for taxi fare," he said, holding out his hand with an expectant look.  
  
"What about your 'winnings' from last night? You can't have spent five hundred pounds already!"  
  
"Well, I uh...um..." Jonathan scrabbled around for an explanation that wouldn't incriminate himself. "There was this, er, pickpocket, yes! Terrible contagion in this city, they are, have the shirt right off your back, and-"  
  
"Jonathan?"  
  
"You see we had to walk through the Old Town to get to-"  
  
"Jonathan!"  
  
"And there was this poor, destitute old man lying-"  
  
"JONATHAN!!"  
  
"Yes! Yes! I spent it all on women!" he shouted, finally admitting what Evy had suspected to begin with. "Are you happy now?!" With a defeated sigh he crossed his arms sulkily and plonked himself down beside her on the sofa.  
  
"Jonathan, I am very far removed from being 'happy', and would you like to take one wild guess why not?" she asked him pointedly.  
  
"I don't know- does it have something to do with 'women's things'?" he said with a cringing expression that meant he was talking about that thing men do not like to talk about- especially with their sisters.  
  
"No it jolly well doesn't!" she retorted indignantly, swatting the side of his leg with the back of her hand. "You're always getting into unpleasant situations because of your associations with women- particularly married ones- and I always end up with a red face while you waltz off into the sunset with the next one! Take that woman this morning for instance-"  
  
"Now just you wait there a minute, Madame judge, jury and executioner! That accusation is completely unfounded and, might I add, will be proven so as soon as I manage to catch up with whoever put her up to it." He argued with a judicial expression. "You just make sure you have your facts straight in future before you go around accusing people of-"  
  
"Alright I apologise! If you tell me she is nothing to do with you, I believe you. But there have been plenty of others, you can't deny there have," Evy said incontrovertibly. She levelled her disapproving gaze at him over the top of her glasses, and Jonathan suddenly felt fourteen years old again, being told off by his headmaster for sneaking into the girl's dormitory. Just as he had done then, he looked at his hands with a guilty grin. "Sometimes I think the only way to keep you out of trouble is lock you up- or get your neutered." Evy said casually, then gave an evil smile at Jonathan's mock terrified expression.  
  
Nuzzling her shoulder with his cheek, he looked up at her with puppy dog eyes that said 'take pity on me, I really will behave myself', while Evy averted her gaze and tried stolidly to read her book.  
  
"Come on Evy, let me out to play...." he whined, pouting like a child confined to school on a sunny day. "Just a bit of pin money, please?" Evy looked unmoved, so Jonathan laid a tentative finger on her cheek. "Pretty please, Evil Weevil?"  
  
"Jonathan, I have told you before I do not like it when you call me that!" she huffed, unable to stifle a grin despite herself. "But if it will get you out from under my feet, how much do you want?" levelling a finger at his nose, she added "within reason!"  
  
"Oh, not much really, I should think, uh, a hundred should do it..."  
  
"One hundred pounds?!" Evy scoffed, amused by the idea that Jonathan could have expected her to just casually throw away such a sum. "That's a pretty high price for a night's peace!"  
  
"Oh come on, I've got to have some sort of stake to play with! I'll get laughed out of the house if I turn up with less than that!"  
  
"And what about Stephen? Can't he lend you some money?"  
  
"No, uh, Stephen isn't coming I'm afraid- not feeling too good, you see-"  
  
"Well it serves him right! I have no sympathy for self inflicted maladies." Suddenly an unpleasant thought made her wrinkle her nose, and she looked at her brother beseechingly. "Oh Jonathan, you're not going to leave him alone here with me, are you?"  
  
"Don't worry, dearest baby sister, your chastity is safe!" he said with a smirk. "I gave him 'the talk' earlier. Besides, he'll probably be in bed all night anyway- sick as a dog, that man."  
  
"Oh, very comforting." She replied sarcastically. "I don't see why you have to go at all- its not like there isn't some card game or other every blessed day of the week!"  
  
"Look Evelyn, we could go on like this all night, but you know you're going to give it to me eventually, so why don't we just dispense with the preamble?" Jonathan said confidently, jumping up and hopping about, impatient to be on his way. Evy sighed, conceding that he was, of course, absolutely right- she could never refuse him anything, however strongly she disapproved of it. Reluctantly getting up, she went to a replica bust of Nefertiti on the bookshelf lining the other side of the room, and removed a small key from underneath it. Then she picked up an old, gilt edged edition of the King James Bible and opened it to reveal a hollow recess within its pages. Retrieving the small cash box concealed there, she unlocked it and took out a quantity of folded notes, before locking at all back up and returning everything to its hiding place.  
  
"Here, take this," she said, grudgingly handing the money over into Jonathan's grubby mits. "Behave yourself if you can, try to find your way home sometime this side of Christmas, and no cheating!" she said, punctuating each instruction with a jab of her finger.  
  
"Will do old mum. Toodlepip!" And with that Jonathan pecked her on the cheek and disappeared out into the hallway. Seconds later Evy heard the bang of the front door, and knew she was alone.  
  
Or ostensibly alone. Somewhere upstairs she knew slept the soon to be ex- lance corporal of His Majesty's Army, Stephen Wilkins.  
  
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A/N: Sorry about all that waffle, but the sole reason for the existence of this chapter is to satisfy the cravings of one avid Evy admirer! It serves very little function in the plot whatsoever, and I will therefore call it a 'character' chapter. Apologies to anyone who was bored rigid! 


	10. Towel Madam?

A/N: Okey dokey, I'm having a slight spot of trouble with characters being disobedient and not adhering to the plot right now, so just let Jonathan do his own thing this evening, and I'll see if I can get his agent to talk to him or something...kay?  
  
Jessie C: I guess you dumped Imhotep, huh? I could see it coming- first you kicked him off the weakest link, and now you've ditched him as your lover too...does that mean he's single now? Hmmmm *has unprintable thoughts*  
  
Lozza: Aaaaw, you always make me feel so loved *tear* just like in the last scene of About Schmidt *chin wobbles* when Jack Nicholson gets the painting from Ndugu, his little African 'foster son'. *blub*  
  
Bachy A: yup, you guessed it- the lone, masked Evy admirer is none other than... *dun da da dah* ZORRO! Er, I mean Bachy A! Hope that made ya happy, but you are SOOOOO gonna like this chapter...  
  
We the Evil Council: Could you perhaps let my dear friend Bachy A out of his Pringles can long enough to read my new chapter? I give you my permission to lock the nutcase right back in there again once he's finished the review. And I must say, that baking soda/vinegar solution sounds most exhilarating, in a perverse kinda way. I think I'll just go lie in a bath of it now...*sizzle* aaaaaahhh!!! *skin begins to melt*  
  
Toni Isis: Yes, you've guessed it- pre TM fic means no Rick *sigh* I only realised it had to be set before the Mummy when I decided to make Stephen a main character (I think the idea had its genesis somewhere in chapter 5, when I mentioned he fancies Evy). But don't worry- I have some wholly improper shenanigans in store for the two of them... *smirk*  
  
Nakhti: BACK OFF YOU RABID BITCH! Thou art ever a foul, windy wench to thus impugn me so!  
  
Oh, and a word of warning- the chapters are not only getting longer, but more random too!  
  
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Chapter 11  
  
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"Johnny boy! Evelyn lead me to believe you wouldn't be joining us tonight," Dickie boomed from the other end of the hallway, as Bernard stepped back from the threshold to admit Jonathan into the impressive marble foyer. The formal butler waited with a patient smile while Jonathan divested himself of his coat, then took it from him and discreetly disappeared.  
  
"I do apologise, old chap," Jonathan replied by way of a salutation, strolling forward to clasp his host by the hand. "Dickie, my sister really is the best creature in the world, but she doesn't know her arse form her elbow half the time."  
  
"Oh, I think I could have a good guess at that..." Dickie said with a saucy twitch of his eyebrows, testing Jonathan's unabashed humour.  
  
"Well, you've learnt by experience, haven't you my friend? You try to grab her arse and she gives you the elbow!" He sniggered as he jabbed his own elbow into Dickie's well covered ribs, eliciting a slightly more disgruntled grunt of surprise than he had meant to. But Dickie was as mild mannered as they come, and neither meant nor took offence at anything.  
  
"Well, you missed the Bentley I'm afraid- I've tucked her all up in bed now," he said with a hint of regret as he steered Jonathan in the opposite direction from the garage. "Damn shame, she's a fine piece of work. I always say you should treat your motor just like you treat your lady- get inside her three times a day and really open her up!" At that he slapped Jonathan on the back and lead him through to the billiard room, laughing heartily.  
  
"Brandy?" he asked, going to the corner bar and lifting up a large crystal decanter with a questioning look.  
  
"Naturally." Jonathan replied, flashing him a grateful smile as Dickie sploshed a generous amount of finest French cognac into a large brandy glass, and handed it to him. "Much obliged."  
  
"Fancy having a King Edward with me?" Dickie offered next.  
  
"Oh, not for me- trying to cut down, you know." Jonathan said with an exaggeratedly dismissive wave of the hand.  
  
"Cut down?!" Dickie scoffed, snorting through his nose. "You're having a laugh, aren't you?"  
  
"Course I bloody am- give me one of those stinking great things!" Jonathan chuckled, plucking a big fat cigar from the box proffered to him. This little jest prompted raucous laughter from the collection of landed gentry gathered in the billiard room, most of whom were already into their second or third brandy. Propping up the bar in the corner was the starchy former attaché to the governor of India, Walter Salter, partly obscured by his very unprepossessing ginger handlebar moustache. Jonathan had long ago vowed to shave the damn thing off, taking advantage of one of the frequent occasions when the bald headed old bastard drank himself into a coma. Unfortunately by the time that usually happened, he himself was always so steamed he forgot to do it. He touched his forehead in a mock salute to the old British colonial, receiving a genial nod in return.  
  
The regular contingent of boring old farts was, as ever, regrettably in attendance; Hugh Ponsonby-Smythe, a commissioned officer whose daddy had more connections than the London telephone exchange, was hovering over by the bookcase, drinking scotch from a crystal tumbler. Medium height and build, medium mousy brown hair, and in every other way rather unremarkable, everyone knew he was only a Major at 34 because his father was the celebrated Brigadier General Sir Thomas Ponsonby-Smythe, who had been instrumental in defending Suez during the war. His son was an averagely decent man with an above averagely large legacy to live up to.  
  
Talking to him was Alasdair Fortnum, who by some happy accident found himself distantly related to the famous William Fortnum of Fortnum&Mason, and had secured himself the rather grand sounding position of 'chief buyer in the middle east.' Of course, since Fortnum&Mason actually sold very little of anything from the middle east, Alasdair mostly just holed up in Cairo squandering his extremely generous salary on all manner of gentlemanly vices.  
  
Then there was Rupert standing by the piano, sipping a tall G&T. Jonathan didn't know anyone else who drank gin and tonic except his sister, but then again he didn't know any other man who plucked his eyebrows and took an interest in flower arranging either. Rupert also loved jewellery, and had rather shrewdly invested his inheritance in a diamond mine in Sierra Leone. He spent every last penny of his large annuity trying to convince himself he was everyone's best friend, but that did make him a very popular person to invite to a card game. Only because everyone realised how scandalously easy it was to rob him blind. Too easy really, rather like shooting fish in a barrel, which was why Jonathan had gone easy on him last week. Thought it was the sportsmanlike thing to do.  
  
To Jonathan's delight he also recognised two old acquaintances he hadn't anticipated being here tonight, currently engaged in a friendly game of billiards- friendly because neither had the slightest clue how to play. Jonathan affectionately considered them to be the two most affable and asinine specimens the English aristocracy had to offer; Sir Charles Effing, and his uncle, Lord Toby.  
  
"Helloo Charlie- you Effing bastard!" Jonathan greeted him with their familiar old joke, slapping him on the back as he was about to take a shot. Turning round in mid stroke to meet Jonathan's big grin, Charlie missed the cue ball by a mile, but as he would most likely have buggered up the shot anyway, it hardly seemed to bother him. At that precise moment Lord Toby was swilling his brandy, warming the glass with the palm of his hand, and when he saw his nephew's cue jerk right off his bridge rest and lodge in the opposite pocket, he smacked his hand down against the table so hard he spilled most of the expensive cognac on the expensive red felt cloth. Definitely from the shallow end of the gene pool, these two, but extremely amusing company.  
  
Unfortunately the same could not be said for one of those present. Tucked away in Dickie's eccentrically gothic batwing armchair, Jonathan spotted the hunched figure of Callum McCracken, the seventh Earl of Strath...Grach- something unpronounceably Scottish- peering malevolently out of his skull- like face. With his skeletal fingers hooked over the arms of the chair, he resembled the lord of the dead himself, enthroned in his sepulchre. He only lacked the conventional black robe and scythe to complete the image.  
  
"Evening Callum," Jonathan greeted the desiccated old corpse with genuine surprise, astonished that he had somehow managed to stave off death for another week. The moribund Scot did not reply, but merely raised his eyebrows in brief acknowledgement of Jonathan's presence before resuming his customary glare. Jonathan hated the prospect of that cold stare at his back all night- the old bastard had eyes like piss holes in the snow, and a nasty Gaelic temperament to boot.  
  
"Right you 'orrible lot," Dickie announced, clapping his hands together and making Rupert jump, "now that we've made the appropriate libations, I suggest we make proper obeisance to that great strumpet Fortune."  
  
This was met by an affirmative chorus or 'here! here!' and the shuffling of handmade leather shoes on the polished parquet flooring, as they all made their way towards the large round card table that had been set up across the room. All except Callum, who seemed rather reluctant to relinquish his gothic horror pose. Either that or he finally had kicked the bucket after all.  
  
"Callum, shall we deal you in?" Charlie asked, thoughtfully pushing out the empty chair beside him before he sat down, ready for when the old man finally did manage to make it over to the table. There was no answer from the batwing armchair, which was positioned with its back to them.  
  
"I bet the old codger's fallen asleep, you know," Rupert said, huffing loudly, plonking himself into the chair nearest the window (which, incidentally, Dickie had deliberately engineered so that the reflection in the dark glass would give the entire table a clear view of his hand).  
  
"Watch out- if he hears you call him that, he'll have you." Lord Toby warned jokingly.  
  
"Ooooh, I don't think I'd like that..." Rupert said affectedly, "he's much too old for me," throwing a sidelong glance at Jonathan from beneath his lashes.  
  
"Oh shut up you big poof," Jonathan snapped, slightly unnerved by the apparent confirmation of a suspicion that had steadily been growing over the last few months.  
  
"Will you two either take your lovers' tiff outside or just kiss 'n' make up?" Hugh teased, eager to stop faffing about and get on with the game. He had a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket, and one way or the other it wasn't going to remain that amount for long.  
  
"No need to be jealous, Ponce," Jonathan shot back, knowing full well Hugh hated that nickname more than anything else in the world. The men at the barracks all laughed at Hugh's name behind his back, and even Lord Toby sometimes referred to him as 'captain queer of the first shirt-lifter battalion'. Not that he shared any of Rupert's limp wristed tendencies, it was just his misfortune to have a surname that was so easy to take the mick out of.  
  
"Oh grow up Johnny," Hugh said in a tone of mild annoyance. Then with a grin, he added, "by the way, where's your buddy tonight?" knowing full well where he wasn't.  
  
"Who?" Jonathan replied innocently, his poker face coming in to play a little early, as he tried desperately not to give anything away. If he let anything slip in front of one of Stephen's superior officers, it might get him into even more trouble than he was in already.  
  
"Lance Corporal Stephen Wilkins. I thought he might show up with you," Hugh pressed. Jonathan shook his head, feigning ignorance.  
  
"Haven't seen him," he said, knowing that the less he said the better. For once he was extremely glad that Stephen was tucked up in bed with a nasty case of gut rot.  
  
"For cripes sake Charlie boy, just deal the cards!" Rupert whined, getting impatient. "Callum can pick it up on the next hand."  
  
"Maybe someone should go and see if he needs help getting up- you know his back gives him trouble." Charlie suggested, always so considerate.  
  
"Oh bollocks to that! The old goat would only snap your head off anyway." Dickie put in, his manners decreasing in negative correlation to the amount of good brandy he had imbibed. "Oi! You big skirt wearing, caber tossing, porridge eating JESSIE!" he called across the room, the only one rich and irreverent enough to dare address the hot-tempered old Scot in such a cheeky manner. "Get over to this table now if you want in!"  
  
Still no answer from the Earl.  
  
"Well, that's it," Dickie said matter-of-factly, "the old buzzard's snuffed it!"  
  
*******  
  
Evy blinked, for about the millionth time that minute, and this time it was more of a struggle to open her eyes again. Her eyelids were getting heavy, and the words weren't going in properly anymore.  
  
"...A splendid midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant..." she stifled a yawn, and the book momentarily closed on her place as her hand went to her mouth. "... it was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious...." She suddenly realised that she couldn't actually remember the last half dozen words or so, and this was the chapter she had been anxiously awaiting for almost three hundred pages! The eve of Jane's departure, Rochester's declaration of love! And she was falling asleep through it.  
  
She rubbed her eyes and replaced her bookmark, catching a glimpse of her gold bracelet watch as she did so. Quarter to eleven? How had that happened? It was well past time for all good little librarians to go off to Bedfordshire.  
  
Evy sighed and stretched languorously, arching her back and feeling the satisfying little clicks of vertebrae settling back into place. She got up off the sofa and plodded wearily up the stairs and into her bedroom, making clumsy work of the buttons of her waistband as she went. Absent-mindedly nudging the door shut with her heel, she stepped out of the slim brown skirt and folded it neatly onto the chair. Next she unbuttoned her thin cotton blouse, carefully dragging the sleeves down one by one, and dropped the garment into the laundry basket. Running her fingers through her long, touseled hair, she reached behind her and pulled her slip over the top of her head, until she was standing in nothing but her bra and knickers. Catching a sleepy look at her reflection, she ran her hands over her stomach and twisted her neck for a quick glance at her behind, wondering if every girl felt quite so dissatisfied with her bottom. Then she unhooked her bra and slid out of her plain white knickers, quickly slipping on her cream silk robe to cover herself up, feeling self conscious even in her own bedroom.  
  
Yawning again she padded down the landing to the bathroom, finding her way by habit rather than sight, for she could barely keep her eyes open. As she sat down on the loo, she honestly couldn't remember if she had locked the door, but she was too sleepy to worry about that now. As Jonathan had said, Stephen probably wouldn't stir all night anyway...  
  
Once again she found herself nodding off, and snapped out of a doze with a surprised jolt to find her chin almost on her chest. She shook her head and made herself get up and turn the shower on. When the temperature was right she slipped out of her robe and stepped into the bath, standing underneath the warm stream of water. She let it fall upon her upturned face and wash down over her shoulders, holding up her hair and trying not to get it wet if she could possibly help it. There was nothing worse than going to bed with wet hair- except perhaps the unruly, tangled mass of curls that would result from it by the morning.  
  
Stepping down out of the bath she reached out blindly towards the towel rack, searching for the fresh white towel she was sure she had put there earlier that day.... eventually her fingers lighted upon it, not where she remembered putting it, but she was too exhausted to care. She buried her face in its soft folds, patting her eyes dry while runnels of water trickled down the rest of her body, dripping onto the bathroom mat.  
  
She slowly moved the towel down her body, drying her neck and shoulders, enjoying the feel of the warm fluffy cotton...but just as she was holding her arms out to wrap the towel around her, she suddenly had the most unsettling sensation. Her eyes flew open, all trace of drowsiness completely chased away, and then she screamed as she had never screamed in all her life.  
  
"STEPHEN!!!"  
  
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A/N: I'm not sure, but I think...yes, I've just had it confirmed down my ear piece, this IS the most pointless chapter since records began. Well, maybe not for Bachy A (are ya satisfied now? You got to see quite a bit of Evy after 8 whole chapters without her! lol) 


	11. An Eyeful, Swiftly Followed by an Earful

A/N: Hey everybody! Ooooh, there's been some stirrings and rumblings about this one... apparently many people share my penchant for low brow humour!  
  
Bachy A: You hang on in there, mate- the secret underground P.L.F.P.I.P.C.W.T.S.B (People's Liberation Front of People Imprisoned in Pringles Cans When They Shouldn't Be- yeah, good at liberation but crap at acronyms) are at this moment coming up with an alternative modus operandi. With any luck you should be out in time for Christmas (2047).  
  
Lauren: Awww, my dear little African Foster child! Let me just say your emails continue to bring warmth to my dull middle aged life...  
  
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Chapter 12  
  
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"The old buzzard has not snuffed it," came a ghostly rasping sound from somewhere beyond the head rest of the batwing armchair. "The old buzzard was just waiting to see how long it would take you all to say 'oh look, the old buzzard's snuffed it'. Imbeciles."  
  
"And we couldn't be happier to hear it! Welcome back to the land of the living, Callum!" Dickie slurred in a jolly tone, raising his glass and sloshing cognac into his lap.  
  
"And I will thank you not to address me in such an impertinent manner, young man," the Earl shot back at him, "this is not a 'skirt', as you put it, it is a kilt!" he said defensively.  
  
With that a sparse grey head rose over the back of the chair, followed by a sunken pair of shoulders. Then the rest of the black dinner jacket slowly followed, until the Earl's entire upper body, bent over and frail, appeared on the other side of the room. As he stepped out from behind the chair, a thin pair of white legs and two knobbly knees became visible sticking out from beneath a deep green tartan kilt.  
  
"Charles, my dear boy, would you be so good as to lend me your elbow- I fear my back is indeed giving me a little trouble this evening."  
  
With a gracious smile Charlie jumped up to oblige, and gently took the Earl's arm and steered him to the table. The Earl favoured him with an extremely rare smile, although it could have been a grimace from the painful effort of walking, and gratefully lowered himself into the chair that Charlie had thoughtfully placed a cushion on for him.  
  
"Thank you, my boy. Would you now be so kind as to fetch me my blanket from the armchair? It's a little chilly this close to the window." Charlie did as he was asked, and immediately returned with a thick woolly blanket and tucked it around the Earl's bare, shivering legs. The Earl nodded, and gave him a barely discernable wink of one watery grey eye.  
  
Jonathan was mildly astonished. He had never heard so much as a gentle word from Callum in all the years he had been Dickie's friend, but he was suddenly seeing a new side to the old grouch in the fondness he displayed towards Charlie.  
  
"That's better. Why couldn't my son-in-law be more like you?" the Earl said to his helper, while making sure everyone noticed the acerbic glance he directed at Dickie.  
  
"Because, Pops, not everyone is that lucky!" Dickie blurted, accidentally spitting out his cigar, which landed in Rupert's gin and tonic with an audible hiss. Jonathan sniggered as the table burst into amused chatter and laughter, with Rupert's whining rising above it all. The Earl was the only silent figure at the table, eyeing each of them from beneath his shady brow.  
  
The game finally commenced. Rupert finally shut up and stopped flapping about, so that the others could surreptitiously glance across at his cards in the window reflection, and the Earl proved to be on top form, winning the first two hands.  
  
That was particularly bad luck for Jonathan. He was going to be the first to go out at this rate, having only begun with a hundred pounds in the first place, and with Rupert flashing his cash as ever, the stakes were rising more rapidly than his pocket could keep up with. If he didn't win soon, he was going to spend the rest of the evening watching a very interesting card game from the sidelines.  
  
"I do hope Wilkins is alright," Hugh said suddenly, with a pointed glance at Jonathan.  
  
"Oh, why? Has something happened to him?" was Jonathan's deceptively calm reply, as he took a nonchalant drag on his King Edward's. Hugh was baiting him, and he knew it. He also knew that Hugh knew he knew, and that made the whole situation much more dangerous.  
  
"It's just that he didn't report back at the barracks last night, and he should have been on police duty today. We could have done with an extra man, what with all the hoo-hah."  
  
"Hoo-hah?" Jonathan inquired casually, with a dreadful sense of foreboding.  
  
"Two of the local constabulary blundered into something last night. One's being held at the station, the other is currently sampling the delights of modern Egyptian embalming practices," Hugh said, with a snort of grim amusement.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"He's dead, Johnny," Hugh stated evenly. Jonathan's face froze, while his mind erupted into panic.  
  
"My goodness!" whispered Charlie, who having listened with one ear, now leant over and took an interest in the conversation from a comfortably detached perspective. "What happened?"  
  
"Well, it would appear to have been a random attack by a member of the Wafd party, but for the fact that there were two white men involved. One of the perpetrators, an Egyptian, was apprehended, but unhappily beaten to death before an auxiliary force could arrive on the scene. Hence the second officer is being held for questioning."  
  
"Sweet Jesus..." Lord Toby muttered. Now every single eye and ear was fixed upon the Major, and he commanded their attention like officers at a briefing.  
  
"So anyway, when it got back that two white men were involved in the murder of a police officer, you can guess what happened next."  
  
"No...?" Charlie murmured, completely enrapt by the story beginning to unfold.  
  
"A witch hunt, that's what. The city police poured out onto the streets, and another incident in Bulaq almost resulted in a riot- until the peace keeping troops got there. I'm rather surprised none of you has heard of it, actually," Hugh paused, waiting to see their reactions, but particularly Jonathan's.  
  
"Well, it is Sunday- day of rest and everything," Walter piped up, slightly irked that he should be accused of not keeping abreast of current affairs. "I'm not usually one to be the last in the loop. When I was attaché to the governor of India-"  
  
"Yes yes, we know Wally- you had your finger on the pulse, you were there when news of the massacre at Amritsar reached the administration in Deli, etc etc... Can we just get back to the game now?" Rupert said impatiently, not wanting to hear yet another boring old 'when I was attaché to the governor of India' story. Walter's enormous ginger moustache twitched in irritation, as he gave a slight huff and went back to scrutinising his cards.  
  
Jonathan let his breath out, not realising he had been holding it for so long. He was tentatively hoping that the whole business with Stephen, and the reason for the outbreak of this pointless conversation, might now have been forgotten. He was hoping in vain.  
  
"So," Hugh continued, "you see why it might have raised the Brigadier General's eyebrows that one of his petty officers didn't report for duty. Are you sure you haven't seen him, Johnny?"  
  
Jonathan frowned and thought very hard for a moment, trying to recall the last time he and Stephen hadn't got into trouble. Damn it all if he could remember when the two of them had done anything that wasn't mildly criminal, but this was the first time they had ever been implicated in a murder.  
  
"I think Monday week was the last time I saw him, up at the fort- you remember Hugh, you warned us for playing strip chess with that strumpet," Jonathan winked at him, hoping his candour might convince Hugh he had not been with Stephen last night. So much for the 'corroborating witness' he had promised Stephen he would be; in the event he had turned out to be something of faithless disciple, denying his friend long before the cock crowed.  
  
Hugh nodded his head slowly, with a wry smile.  
  
"Yes, I do, as it happens. But she wasn't a strumpet, she was the commissioner's daughter."  
  
Jonathan smirked, remembering exactly what the commissioner's daughter had whispered to him when she was sitting there in just a satin slip and stockings.  
  
"I swear to you, I never laid a hand on her!" he protested, while the others all laughed and made lewd suggestions. All except Rupert, who looked a little jealous, if Jonathan had to admit it. "Not to slight a lady's character, but she was the one who suggested we make it STRIP chess!" Jonathan's voice was virtually drowned out by the general back slapping and salacious comments about their resident 'ladies man', but Hugh's barking tone carried over them like a drill sergeant walking in on a mess hall.  
  
"That may be, but the fact remains that Stephen Wilkins is currently listed as AWOL, and unless he presents himself with a fairly decent excuse in the next twenty four hours, I'm afraid he might soon find himself up shit creek."  
  
Jonathan pursed his lips and let out a nervous whistle, trying to imagine just what kind of excuse might be classed as 'decent' enough to escape a court martial. Hugh seemed to read his thoughts.  
  
"I don't like to wish ill on anybody, but I do hope he has some genuinely debilitating condition- and I don't mean an alcohol related one."  
  
Debilitating condition... that suggested the beginnings of a plan to Jonathan. If only he could get home and discuss it with Stephen...but he couldn't leave in the middle of a game. Not unless he extended his losing streak into the most spectacular run of bad luck Jonathan Carnahan had ever had at cards.  
  
"Well fellas," he said to the entire table, "what say we just put all such unpleasant thoughts behind us and enjoy the evening?"  
  
****  
  
Evy froze, staring in absolute incredulity and horror. She simply couldn't believe what she was seeing- she blinked once, hoping it would all go away, but of course it didn't. She dropped the towel in disgust.  
  
Once again standing in nothing but her own skin, dripping water onto the bathroom mat, Evelyn started to shiver. But not with cold. Nor was the flush she could feel burning in her cheeks anything to do with the hot water. She was furious.  
  
"Stephen!!" she muttered under her breath, wishing for one malicious moment that mere intent could actually kill. Looking down at the freshly washed, supposedly clean white towel at her feet, she curled her lip in disgust. Kicking the offending object away from her, she leaned across and picked up the first CLEAN towel she could lay her hands on- which was hardly bigger than a handkerchief- and quickly began drying herself with vehement strokes.  
  
"I suppose I should have expected as much from any scoundrel who drinks with Jonathan!" she said bitterly, virtually scouring the flesh off her arms as she scrubbed herself with the hand towel, trying to rid herself of some unseen pollution. She couldn't believe that had just been next to her skin. It was disgusting! She half wondered if she should get back into the shower, wash it off properly.  
  
Then she suddenly stopped. Wiping a circle in the steamed up mirror, she took one look at her livid expression, and sighed.  
  
"Oh really Evelyn, stop being such a silly female!" she admonished herself, taking in deep, calming breaths. "It didn't even touch you!" She went back to dabbing her raw skin more gently, and when she had dried off most of the excess water, she reached out for her robe that was hanging from the hook on the back of the door.  
  
Just then the handle depressed, and a minute gap opened up between the door and the jamb.  
  
"Evelyn? Are you alright?" came a sleepy voice from the other side of it, "I thought I heard you scream. Did you call me?"  
  
"Stephen, there is VOMIT on my nice clean towel!!!!" she shrieked at him, angrily thrusting one arm into the sleeve of her robe.  
  
"Huh? Oh, I uh...um, sorry ..." came his pathetic reply. "I'll wash it-" he began, pushing open the door.  
  
"No Stephen! I'm not-"  
  
Too late.  
  
"Oh Christ Evy!!" he blurted out in shock, immediately going bright red, his hands flying up to shield his eyes from the sight of nude female flesh. Well, not completely nude, but he could now say with some authority that Evelyn Carnahan had the nicest left boob he had ever seen.  
  
"Get OUT!!!!" she yelled, throwing the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be Jonathan's shaving brush, in his general direction. Stephen retreated under a barrage of bathroom accessories, and slammed the door behind him, panting.  
  
****  
  
A/N: Was that pervy enough for ya? te he, not quite what everyone was expecting, was it? Oh my gosh, plot lines are just converging everywhere, and this is starting to get complicated... 


	12. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

A/N: hmmmmm... I'm starting to work on a little something for all you fans of Evy pairings. If this story runs into the twentieth chapter something interesting might happen, but at present everyone is just meandering in and out of my brain doing nothing in particular- just like the Sims. Hope you're not getting bored coz I'm having way to much fun to quit now!  
  
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Chapter 13  
  
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"Evy? Evy I'm really, really sorry- please, just come out and slap me or something," Stephen pleaded, leaning his head against the door post, speaking into the keyhole. There was no reply and he bit his lip, wincing at the huge mess he had just made of things. Any remote chance he might once have fancied he had with Evelyn Carnahan had just been spectacularly thrown out the window.  
  
Evy didn't say a word as she opened the door and flounced out into the hallway, nose in the air, haughty expression on her beautiful but flustered face. He caught her gently by the arm.  
  
"Look, I'm sorry about the towel, and about the, uh, door, uh thing..." he bumbled inadequately, trying to placate her with a contrite expression in his eyes. "Honestly, I didn't see anything." *Much*, he thought to himself.  
  
"Mr Wilkins, from what I know of your escapades with my brother I would say you are demonstrably incapable of honesty. Kindly remove your hand from my arm."  
  
Ouch, that tone stung worse than the slap he had been expecting. It was patently obvious that there was nothing he could do or say to ingratiate himself with her at this precise moment. She was mad as all getout. Oh well, as long as he couldn't possibly make it any worse... he took a deep breath and plunged in.  
  
"Look at me, " he said, touching her chin to tilt her face towards him. Her eyes shone brightly, showing no sign of softening. "I don't want you to go to sleep angry with me," he said in a soft, velvety voice, barely above a whisper. It was his 'sweet nothings' voice, and it usually worked a charm with the ladies. Usually.  
  
"I shant give YOU another moment's thought, Mr Wilkins!" she said scornfully, pulling out of his grasp. Stephen frowned and sought her gaze with his electric blue eyes, not letting her look away while that angry expression prevailed.  
  
"What's all this 'Mr Wilkins' business, hmmm?" he said in a wounded tone. "I've known you since you were twelve. I was Stephen then, and I'm still Stephen now."  
  
"Well unlike you and my brother, I have grown up since then!" she shot back, still mad.  
  
Didn't he just know it, Stephen mused with a deep sigh. The long unruly locks and the horn-rimmed spectacles were still there, but there were a few other very noticeable differences in Evy since their childhood days. She had grown into a very fine figure of a woman since he had been away, and he could just kick himself that he had used to stick toffees in her hair and tease her about her flat chest. Back then he might actually have been in the running for her, if he had had the sense to be the least bit interested. But then his father had died, leaving a crippled business and a lot of debts, and he had been forced into the army. By the time he bumped into Jonathan again in Cairo, quite by accident many years later, he had already cultivated enough vices to win the disapproval of any kind of respectable girl's father. He knew that while Jonathan was more than happy to have him as a friend again, he would never entertain the possibility of someone like him as a brother-in-law.  
  
"I know you think I'm a bounder and blackguard, but if you just got to know me a little better...you'd see I'm still the same old Stephen."  
  
"That's what worries me. Do you know how long it took to grow my hair back after I had to have it all cut off because of you? Three years! And for most of that time I was nicknamed 'fuzzbuzz'!"  
  
Stephen put a hand over his mouth to keep from sniggering, which would not be the best way to win her favour right now. He had to admit the name was pretty apt- he hair was rather a mass of frizz at times. Right now there was a little wet ringlet of it stuck to her cheek, while the rest fell in wavy cascades over her shoulders. Standing there in her damp silk robe, no makeup, hair loose and uncombed, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  
  
"Evelyn- Evy- can't we just make a new start?" he implored her, taking a step forward as she took one back towards her bedroom.  
  
"I'll think about it," she said in a non-committal tone, before going back into her room and shutting the door on his half formed good night.  
  
******  
  
"Evy, old stick, Johnny boy's home!" Jonathan called as he nudged open the front door and stepped into the hallway, the second half of the sentence trailing off as he realised all was dark and quiet. It wasn't that late, probably not long after midnight- god Evelyn was such an old biddy when it came to getting her beauty sleep! But perhaps it was best she was in bed after all; now he wouldn't have to tell her about the spectacular loss he had just incurred. She wasn't seeing that hundred pounds again, that was for sure.  
  
"I can't believe I just did that!" he said to himself, heading towards the dining room, "And sober as well!" He went to the sideboard and opened the drinks cabinet, looking for the bourbon. "Just the one," he thought, pouring himself a very large one.  
  
"Having a nightcap by yourself, eh Jonathan?" came a voice from the doorway behind him.  
  
"Ah! Just the man I want to see!" Jonathan replied without turning round, getting another glass from the cabinet and pouring another exceedingly large bourbon. His friend was going to need it for what he had in mind. "Well don't lurk in doorways all night, come and join me!"  
  
"Ah, yes that reminds me Johnny, I have to talk to you about something actually..."  
  
"Me too, old chap- I'm afraid we have a slight problem." Jonathan interrupted, handing Stephen the glass. "You'll never guess who I had the misfortune to bump into at Dickie's house."  
  
"That sour faced old git in the kilt?" Stephen joked, taking the glass Jonathan offered and going through into the lounge. He sat down in Evy's favourite spot on the sofa, and nestled into the cushions.  
  
"Him too- but I was talking about the major," Jonathan said darkly, plonking himself in the overstuffed armchair next to the bookcase. "He was rather interested in your whereabouts."  
  
"Shit," Stephen hissed, taking a large swig of bourbon. "Did you tell him anything?"  
  
"I told him I hadn't seen you."  
  
"Oh great! That's all you could think of? Saving your own skin?!" Stephen shouted in a bitterly accusing tone, getting the feeling that he was once again being dumped in trouble and left to find his own way out by his so called friend.  
  
"Well I was slightly pressed at the time! You know denial is always my first impulse- its like a knee jerk reaction!" Jonathan said defensively, trying to mask his guilt about hanging Stephen out to dry. If only they had stopped to think for a minute beforehand, they might have realised Hugh was likely to be at Dickie's. Then they could have come up with some sort of convincing cover story; his Granny died, he was saving babies from a burning orphanage, he was crossing the road and got hit by a...now there was an idea!  
  
"So I guess I'm screwed, is that about the long and the short of it? I was supposed to report in this morning, so now that makes me AWOL-"  
  
"That's not the worst of it," Jonathan said quietly, keeping his voice down in case they should wake Evy, "That police officer..."  
  
"The one you hit?" Stephen reminded him with a stern expression.  
  
"No, the other one- he's dead."  
  
"Oh shit," Stephen said again, draining the glass.  
  
"It wasn't our fault, it was that hot tempered little sore loser Khalid! Well, he got himself into something he couldn't quite handle this time- he's dead too." Stephen looked up in shock.  
  
"You mean...?"  
  
"Yup, beaten to death by that copper I hit. Geez, makes you wonder what would have happened it he'd caught up with US!"  
  
"You mean caught up with you." Stephen corrected him.  
  
"You wouldn't have let some local hardhead beat ten bales out of your old friend Johnny, would you?" Jonathan asked with an injured expression. "That's just not cricket!"  
  
"I might have been tempted to join in actually," Stephen said with mirthless humour. "But at least that's the last you'll hear of that five hundred pounds."  
  
Jonathan was suddenly struck by an unsettling realisation- if Khalid was dead, then that meant the woman who had visited Evy this morning was unlikely to be anything to do with him...so who had put her up to it? More to the point, who had knocked her up?!  
  
"Oh, Evy is going to kill me..." he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes, all of a sudden feeling completely exhausted.  
  
"Not before she gets through with me," Stephen muttered, looking over at Jonathan with a very sheepish expression.  
  
"Why, what have you done to her that's so terrible?"  
  
"Well...there was this little incident...a sort of...accident..."  
  
"Oh, you didn't break her bust of Nefertiti, did you? That was mother's..." Jonathan said in a pained voice, looking across at the bookcase to check if the statuette was still in tact.  
  
"No, but he got a fairly good view of MY bust!" Evelyn said with the most withering of expressions as she appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a heavy winter dressing gown as well as her flimsy cream robe, over an ankle length nightdress. "And now he has woken me up!" She fumed, remembering her previous anger now that she had reason to berate Stephen for the second time that night.  
  
"Evelyn!" Stephen gasped in anticipation of the whole sorry, humiliating story coming out, and his cheeks immediately coloured.  
  
So did Jonathan's, as his brow darkened with a dangerous look.  
  
"Stephen- what have you done!" he shouted, getting up and going to his sister. "I hope you haven't besmirched the honour of my baby sister!" he said rather grandiloquently, putting an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a protective embrace.  
  
"No, nothing, it was....I didn't mean to!"  
  
"Got a good look at my breasts, did you Stephen?" Evy said in a rare instance of sarcasm from her- she usually maintained it was the lowest form of wit, and thus better left to Jonathan.  
  
"No, I didn't, honestly!" Stephen protested, raising his hands in an open palmed gesture. "Well, just the one..." he inadvertently admitted, getting very hot under the collar beneath her penetrating gaze.  
  
"Right, that's it Stephen- outside!" Jonathan demanded, pointing to the hallway with a murderous expression.  
  
"What? Surely you're not going to-" Evy began.  
  
"I'm going to get in my car and run him over with it!" Jonathan stated, rummaging in his pockets for his keys. Stephen nearly died on the spot.  
  
"Wha...but...you..." he stammered, not sure how things had gone from bad to worse so quickly. Jonathan's face was steadily getting redder and redder, his lips pressed together until they turned white. Finally he couldn't keep it in any more, but burst out laughing.  
  
"Are you always this articulate?" he teased, cackling madly while Stephen once again did his famous goldfish impression.  
  
"Jonathan! This is NOT funny!" Evy chided, pushing him away from her and jamming her hands on her hips.  
  
"Evykins, if Stephen really wanted to look at female flesh, I'm sure he could find some rather more voluptuous than yours!"  
  
"JONATHAN!!"  
  
"I'm sorry Evy, but I have to take his side on this- I'm sure it was an innocent mistake,"  
  
Stephen smiled with relief, rather glad Jonathan was generally inclined to see the funny side of things, rather than the sort to resort to homicidal rage. He wasn't even sure Jonathan knew how to do homicidal rage.  
  
"It really was," he said innocently. Evy glared at him- god she was beautiful when she was angry. Even huddled in all those layers- she was evidently not going to give him the same chance again- he could still tell she had the most slender waist and perfect curves hidden underneath there somewhere.  
  
Jonathan's voice suddenly put an end to Stephen's reverie. "Anyway, back to bed with you- work tomorrow. Wont make a squeak from now on, scouts honour and all that," he promised, kissing Evy on the cheek and ushering her out into the hallway. Stephen could hear her protests and mild threats echoing off the cold mosaic floor, then her feet padding up the carpeted stairs, and finally the muffled clunk of her bedroom door.  
  
Jonathan came back in and went to fetch the bourbon, topping up his glass before going to refill Stephen's.  
  
"Right, finish that up and then outside. I'll get the car."  
  
"Jonathan, you're not going to get me with that one twice," he chuckled, settling himself back into the sofa with a contented sigh.  
  
"I'm bloody well serious!" Jonathan insisted, wiping the smirk of Stephen's face. "It has to look convincing, you need at least a concussion," he said, thinking out loud.  
  
"What in god's name are you blathering on about? Are you drunk?"  
  
"No, but you might want to be. Have another," he said, lifting Stephen's glass to his lips and virtually pouring the contents down throat, then reaching for the bottle to fill it back to the top. Stephen coughed as he tried to put his hand over the mouth of the glass, preventing him from pouring any more into it, but Jonathan had other ideas.  
  
"Look, I'm not going to lie to you- it will hurt. But it's either that or face a Court Martial. Now drink up!"  
  
"Jonathan, you're bloody insane! Do you mean to say you want to run me over with your car to provide a plausible excuse for me not reporting back last night? Pretty convincing excuse all right- being dead!"  
  
"No, I'm not going to run you over!" Jonathan assured, waving his hand as if telling him not to be so ridiculous. Stephen let out a huge sigh and closed his eyes in relief.  
  
"Blimey Jonathan, you had me worried there for a minute!"  
  
"I'm just going to *hit* you with it. You don't need a full body cast to convince them, just an arm will do."  
  
"I can't believe you- you are not going to hit me with that bloody death contraption!"  
  
"Don't worry Stephen, I know what I'm doing- I'm a professional."  
  
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A/N: Whatcha reckon? Should he do it? Should I let Stephen get all banged up? Maybe then Evy could do her little Florence Nightingale act... ho hum, things they are a-stirring. 


	13. A Late Call

A/N: Wow, that was indeed a long suspension of service! Sorry bout that folks, just put it down to writer's block and a small academic crisis. Thanks for all the reviews though, it was sure encouraging to hear you clamouring for more escapades from our favourite delinquent duo!  
  
Toni Isis: Thanks for flicking the whip at me for this chapter- it was your Jonathan fic that finally got my arse back into gear! I can't let my Johnny boy go out like that!  
  
Lozza: *Does Dr Evil voice* You complete me, Mini Me.  
  
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Chapter 14  
  
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"You're not bloody well coming within a hundred feet of me in that car!" Stephen shouted, jumping up off the sofa and almost upsetting the coffee table. Jane Eyre teetered worryingly over the edge, before sliding off the pile of National Geographics and landing upside down on the floor, sticking up like a lone Bedouin tent in the great expanse of deep pile carpet.  
  
Jonathan raised his eyebrows at the sudden commotion, and peered up at Stephen over the crystal tumbler that had been halfway to his lips.  
  
"Have a better idea, do you?" he said sardonically, although it sounded rather like patronisation to Stephen.  
  
"Well, no but-"  
  
"Well then, sit down, finish your drink and stop chucking Evy's books on the floor. She hates it when they get all dog-eared..."  
  
Stephen lowered himself back down onto the floral chintz sofa, but did not bother to make himself too comfortable. Instead he sat perched on the edge with his feet firmly planted on the floor, just in case he needed to rise to express his indignation once again- or make a sharp exit for the door.  
  
He picked up Evelyn's now battered book by the spine, his brow creasing into a little frown not unlike her own as he tried to guess which page her bookmark had fallen out of. After a moment's ponderous searching, he realised he had no chance whatsoever of picking the exact page, so he simply placed the slim, tasselled card at the beginning of a chapter somewhere in the middle, and hoped it wouldn't be too far off. His eye just happened to catch the first line as he did so; 'A splendid midsummer shone over England...'  
  
That took him back to a few of his own splendid midsummers spent in England, most of them running around the Carnahan's estate when he and Jon had been on holiday from boarding school. A hazy glint of nostalgia entered his eyes as he pictured himself and an even more gangly and wiry looking Jonathan, all mischievous grins and hunger for adventure, as they eagerly rolled up their trousers to go wading knee deep in the brook, searching for slimy brown toads or bullheads. They could spend all afternoon trampling around in the murky river bed, lifting up rocks until they saw one of the mud coloured fish shoot out from underneath, then quickly scooping it up in a milk bottle before it disappeared into camouflage again. When it began to get dark beneath the canopy of trees at the bottom of the field, they would proudly bring their captured specimens back up to the house, cackling with glee in anticipation of Evy's terrorised expression when they shoved them under her nose.  
  
"What do you think you're grinning about, ex- lance corporal Wilkins?" Jonathan suddenly snapped rather irritably, interrupting Stephen's fond reminiscences about their carefree childhood.  
  
"The idea of knocking your block off," Stephen shot back, doubly annoyed to remember what their relationship had been like back then, compared with what it was now. Even though he was the younger of the two, he had always been the stronger, braver, the first one over the orchard wall, first to jump off the rock. But bravery didn't seem to stand him in such good stead anymore. Money and connections were what the game was about now, and at that Jonathan had him beaten hands down, every time.  
  
"Somehow, I don't think that's going to help the situation," Jonathan said snidely. Stephen muttered something deliberately unintelligible in response. "What?"  
  
"I said 'Oh Jonathan, what an astoundingly astute man you are'." Stephen snapped back with just as much biting sarcasm.  
  
"I heard what you said the first time, but I can't help agreeing with you on the latter."  
  
"Smug bastard..." Stephen muttered into his collar, as he made a half hearted pretence at readjusting his rumpled shirt.  
  
"Yes, I heard that too," Jonathan said casually, like a head master making a mental note to add on another five stokes of the cane. "If you want me to help you, sonny Jim, I suggest you try co-operating just a tad better."  
  
"Well I'm so sorry to mess up your plans, Johnny, but I'm not about to co- operate myself into hospital!" Stephen's punctuating hand gestures were flailing so wildly by now, that the crystal tumbler on the table in front of him was in danger of going the same way as Evy's book.  
  
Jonathan didn't respond for a moment or two, instead taking a leisurely sip of bourbon before settling deeper into the arm chair, a look of vague contemplation glazing his pupils. Or perhaps it was just the early onset of a drunken stupor.  
  
Stephen was possibly even more irritated by his silence than his usual asinine retorts, and just as he was on the verge of launching into another barrage of bitter insults, Jonathan took a breath, as if about to make some greatly considered and erudite contribution to the debate.  
  
"Lets have another drink, shall we?" He lifted up his empty glass between thumb and forefinger, and looked over at Stephen's nearly full one. The blonde man appeared to be getting redder and redder, even without the aid of the liquid fire Jonathan had been happily pouring down his neck, and sending him a look that was sharper than English mustard.  
  
"I don't know, maybe you'd prefer an oxygen mask..." Jonathan said with a cheeky smile. Seeing it did not win him any charm points with Stephen, he quickly ditched the attempt at humour, and put on the rarely worn serious expression that Evy said made him the spitting image of their father. (Jonathan had always thought it rather ironic that he had inherited the Carnahan academic brow, while she got the alluring eastern features from their dancer mother.) "Alright, no more arsing around, time to approach this constructively."  
  
Stephen feigned a look of ecstatic realisation, as if he had just heard the radical and remarkable suggestion that would put an end to all his woes. "Oh! You mean calmly assess the situation and come up with a rational and realistic plan of action?" Of course the expression was belied by the sarcasm that inevitably follows such statements of the bleeding obvious. "Now why on EARTH didn't I think of that one? Here I've been trying to come up with the most ridiculous and far fetched schemes that don't stand a bagel in Baghdad's chance of working- no wait, that was you, wasn't it?"  
  
"You haven't even thought the idea through yet..." Jonathan said in a decidedly resentful whine, still adamant that his suggestion was neither far fetched nor hopeless, but aware it was looking less and less likely it would ever get off the ground.  
  
"Nor have you!"  
  
"I'm just saying its one possible option. If you wanted to explore alternative avenues-" Jonathan began in an purposeful tone, as if now they were getting somewhere. Stephen simply folded his arms, still looking mustard back at him.  
  
"Quite frankly I think we've explored more than enough 'avenues' recently, Jonathan- no more of your shambolic capers around Cairo!"  
  
Jonathan hmphed loudly, effecting a petulant school boy pout which he did not even abandon when he took another drink, somehow managing to retain the sulky look over the rim of the glass. When he put it down again, he lapsed into another uncharacteristic silence.  
  
"Well come on then," Stephen said in a challenging tone, "you're the man in charge of executive decisions and planning, as you so often like to remind me." He cocked his head in an exaggerated gesture of anticipation, arms still folded, impatiently tapping his bicep with one finger while he waited for Jonathan to astound him with his cleverest ever cunning plan.  
  
Jonathan cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows quizzically, as if to make a tentative suggestion.  
  
"So the car idea is-"  
  
"Absolutely insane and completely out of the question," Stephen stated firmly, before he could even mention it again. "I may be screwed, but better screwed and in one piece than screwed and stuck to the grill of your grotty little Morris Minor."  
  
"Well if you're just going to reject all my ideas-"  
  
"Jonathan, you've only had one, and not a very good one at that! I think you've been watching too much Buster Keaton, its affected your grip on reality- I know the silly man always gets up again, Johnny," Stephen plastered on a smile as he assumed a patronising, falsely sweet voice, as if talking to a child or a mentally infirm geriatric, "but usually when a man gets mown down by an automobile, he bloody well stays down!" he finished in an enraged snarl, so forcefully in fact that the capillaries in his eyeballs seemed on the verge of bursting.  
  
"Look, Stev-"  
  
"Will you two keep it down in there! I'm trying to get some sleep!" Evelyn's voice carried all the way from the landing, down the stairs, through the open sitting room door, and still sliced through Jonathan's retort like a scalpel through butter. Jonathan had completely forgotten about his dear sweet baby sister slumbering peacefully upstairs. Or rather not slumbering, and that irate tone wasn't particularly peaceful either.  
  
"Sorry sis!" he called in his most humbly apologetic voice, which was not so kindly greeted by a loud bang as she slammed her bedroom door, just to reinforce her angry message. "Now look what you've done!" he chided his loud mouthed house guest, "You've gone and made her mad- again!"  
  
"Living with you, I should think she gets used to it." Stephen said testily, getting up to close the door to the hallway so that he could carry on his rant in relative safety from the wrath of Evy. On his way he managed to accidentally kick the leg of the coffee table, sending Jane Eyre for a tumble once more. He ignored it this time, and grabbing the decanter from the sideboard on his way back, he refilled Jonathan's glass before sitting down- more to shut him than as a gesture of goodwill.  
  
"There must be some way out of this business," he said with a deep sigh, as he slumped back into the dent in the middle of the sofa. "Maybe I should just threaten to disclose those photographs of Hugh and the duty sergeant..."  
  
Detecting gossip, Jonathan was instantly on the alert, his eyes lit up with a fiendish delight at the thought of the ever ordinary Hugh embroiled in a proper bit of scandal. He sat bolt upright in the armchair, almost sloshing his third bourbon in his lap. "Now you're talking!"  
  
"I was being sarcastic, Jonathan!"  
  
"Well how should I know- you're supposed to be my straight man!" Jonathan complained, making no attempt to hide his disappointment that there were no such incriminating pictures, as he sulkily sat back down and sucked the spilt liquor off the back of his hand.  
  
"I've been acting as your 'straight man' for years, and what has it ever got me, huh? A few quid and a lot of bruises-"  
  
"Not to mention that rather spectacular case of 'amnesia' you suddenly 'came down with' that time," Jonathan interjected, recalling one of their more dramatic escapes from a close scrape, in the hope that it might bolster his friends waning spirits. "Quite a stroke of genius how you pulled that one off-"  
  
"I wasn't pulling anything off, Jonathan, I had just been unconscious!" Stephen shot back bitterly. "The only thing I remember about that entire night is some giant oaf lamping me one in the jaw!"  
  
Jonathan raised his eyebrows with a faint smile.  
  
"Really? So you don't remember why he did it...?"  
  
Stephen fixed him with a blatantly accusing glare, and folded his arms again crossly. Jonathan didn't think it the best time to mention he could pass for a very good imitation of his sister.  
  
"I can take an educated guess that it wasn't entirely my fault."  
  
"True, true, I had my hand in that as well..." Jonathan was quite prepared to throw his hands up and take the blame- after the consequences had been dealt with and there was nothing to be lost or gained by the admission.  
  
"That's just what I mean Jonathan, your harebrained ideas always get us into trouble- no, get ME into trouble, while you waltz off with some pretty bit of crumpet!"  
  
"I can't help it, it's the old school boy charm, you see Stev-"  
  
"Oh shut up Jonathan!" Stephen had had just about all he was going to take of this man's blithe attitude towards misfortune- or more accurately, his misfortune. Jonathan usually managed to emerge unscathed. That reminded him though... "How's the arse, anyway?" he asked, trying not to let his rage become compromised by a smirk, but unable to help himself.  
  
"Actually, it's quite tender this evening," Jonathan said stiffly, attempting to retain his dignity as he awkwardly adjusted his position in the chair. "Think there's still a bit of glass in there somewhere."  
  
"Well I did what I could, but I'm not a bloody surgeon. Be thankful it was just a few bits of broken bottle, and not a machete I was trying to extract from your flesh."  
  
"Oh well that's sympathy for you..." Jonathan moaned, wincing again as he reached for his glass to gulp another mouthful of Jim Beam.  
  
"You don't deserve sympathy- it only encourages you anyway." Stephen didn't know what frustrated him more, the fact that Jonathan always got them into such a mess, or the fact that he always let him. He knew perfectly well what his old school friend was like, and yet he never anticipated disaster in order to stop it before the point of no return- it seemed he was forever fated to repent their crimes after the fact. Perhaps if he took a stronger line, tried to be the responsible one, like Evy kept telling him..."One of these days a scheme of yours is really going to backfire, and then it won't just be a slight spot of bother you find yourself in, but a wooden box!"  
  
"Now don't be melodramatic, Stephen, you're starting to sound worse than Evelyn. At least her whining is slightly easier on the ear than yours."  
  
"Why do you always have to be such a flippant little fu-"  
  
"I wont tell you again!" Came the demoniac screech of the woman herself, admittedly not quite so easy on the ear at present. This time she sounded even angrier, her strident voice penetrating the heavy cedar door with ease, and Jonathan knew that was indeed their final warning before she unleashed the full force of her temper. Another apologetic excuse from Jonathan, and another door slam later, and all was quiet in the living room.  
  
For about thirty seconds.  
  
"It was definitely you that time," Stephen said quietly, trying to keep the decibels to a containable level.  
  
"You're the one raising your voice."  
  
"Maybe if you hadn't gone to that bloody poker game tonight, I wouldn't have the NEED to raise my voice!" The decibels were starting to creep up again, but Stephen was still making some effort at restraint, producing something like a vehement whisper, almost bordering on a growl.  
  
"I don't see what that's got to do with anything- if it hadn't been for your impressive display of gastric pyrotechnics, you'd have come with me, and then where would you be?"  
  
"A military cell, most likely, but at least I'd be out of ear shot of your incessant stream of bullshit, Jonathan!" He jumped up again and began to pace between the sofa and the sideboard, not quite fuming, but getting damn close.  
  
"Now, now Stevie, that's no way for a gentleman to talk." Jonathan had that cheeky grin that in the right situation was inducement to hysterics, but in the wrong one, such as now, the catalyst for homicidal rage. One more word out of him, and Stephen would gladly open up his knuckles on his teeth. "You should be in the army with that filthy mouth-"  
  
"I'm gonna hit you in a minute." Stephen felt that was fair warning- certainly more than Jonathan had given the police officer last night. At that the inane grin quickly disappeared, to be replaced by an exaggeratedly scandalised expression, which under different circumstances might also have seemed comical.  
  
"You wouldn't hit a man with glasses, would you?"  
  
"You don't wear glasses!" Stephen bellowed, whirling round in an irritated about face to look at Jonathan, just to make sure. In truth he didn't know whether Jonathan needed glasses or not, but he had never known his keen vision to fail when it came to spotting cards.  
  
"No, but I think I should- can you see that thing moving about underneath the rhododendron on the patio?" Stephen knew it was one of Jonathan's little misdirection tricks, but still, dumb curiosity and an innate instinct for reconnaissance got the better of him. Before he could stop himself he had followed Jonathan's line of sight through the French doors and out towards the paved patio, which was dimly illuminated by the light spilling out through the half drawn curtains. At a quick glance he could barely see the shrub itself, let alone anything that might be rooting around beneath it.  
  
"No..." he muttered, still breathing angrily, before turning back to Jonathan.  
  
Jonathan, who had been pretending to squint in concentration, suddenly relaxed his brow in a look of wide eyed innocence, and shrugged dismissively.  
  
"No, nor can I."  
  
"Hilarious, Johnny, truly, I think you should play the London Palladium." Stephen deadpanned, but with a mildly dangerous undertone.  
  
"And I think you should both just shut up and GO TO BED!!" There was no hidden undertone in that statement.  
  
Stephen flinched at the sudden intrusion of that high pitched female voice, but Jonathan actually jumped in the air, wincing at the stinging sensation that immediately zinged through his buttocks as he landed back down on the cushion. They both turned simultaneously to see Evy standing in the doorway, looking extremely disgruntled to say the least, and, Stephen thought, extremely pretty with her hair all dishevelled and her doe like eyes blinking in the bright light of the living room.  
  
"Can you not afford me even the TINIEST bit of consideration? It is now Monday morning, and I have to go to WORK in a few hours!"  
  
Stephen, being the closest, felt it fell to him to smooth things over this time. But having taken a few steps nearer her slim, night-gowned form, he suddenly stopped and nervously ran a hand through his thick blonde hair, not sure what he was going to say in the face of such an angry, unappeasable countenance.  
  
"I'm, er, really sorry, Evelyn, I didn't mean to disturb your sleep."  
  
"Sleep would be a fine thing, Mr Wilkins," she huffed from beneath her wispy fringe, curls of which were falling into her eyes. He instinctively reached up to brush them away, but caught himself at the last minute, and snatched his hand back just as she irritably pushed them out of her face herself. As she flicked her hair back from her shoulders, he noticed she was shivering slightly.  
  
"You're cold, you should get back to bed," he gently urged, trying his very hardest not to let his eyes wander. It took all his self control to keep eye contact, when all that stood between her body and his gaze was a thin layer of cotton, but somehow he managed it.  
  
She began to say something to the effect that she was perfectly fine, thank you very much, but suddenly she too seemed to become aware of the fact that she was standing in front of him in nothing but a flimsy little nightie. And more to the point, looking down she realised there were certain other signs that she was indeed a little chilly. Crossing her arms over her chest self consciously, she made that little flustered sound of hers, and whipped her head round to look at her brother.  
  
"Well, good night Jonathan. And I mean that for the last time."  
  
Jonathan had been observing the exchange between them, and Stephen's surreptitious appraisal of his sister's figure hadn't escaped his attention.  
  
"Good night old mum, and don't worry, I'll be off to Bedfordshire myself shortly."  
  
"Just please make sure the cat is in before you do," she said over her shoulder, already turning into the hallway to trudge back up to bed. Jonathan lowered his voice and muttered in the general direction of the doorway, although not intended for his sister's ears.  
  
"Surely will, nighty night and Stephen if your eyes continue to follow my sister up the stairs I will be forced to resort to affirmative action."  
  
Stephen dropped his gaze to hall floor.  
  
"What? I wasn't- I mean I don't-" he was cut off by a sudden strident clangour that filled the hallway and reverberated off the cold mosaic tiles, its shrill blast ringing in his ears when it ended just as suddenly. Then it came again, the early morning stillness magnifying its volume beyond all proportion, so that it took Stephen another few moments to realise what it was.  
  
"Who the Dickens would be ringing you at this time of night, Jonathan?"  
  
"I haven't a clue," Jonathan said anxiously, levering himself up out of the armchair and striding towards the door, "Evy had the infernal thing put in last month- don't know why, I never heard of an archaeological emergency- and I'm not even sure who has the number." He had reached the hallway by now, and dashed towards the corner where a little round table provided a convenient place for keys, odds and ends... and Evy's new fangled telephone. Jonathan clumsily plucked the cream coloured receiver from the cradle, putting an end to its unmannerly screeching, and with a certain amount of trepidation held it up to his ear.  
  
"Huh-hullo?" he said into the wrong end, not quite sure how one addressed a person one couldn't see. He heard a very faint and tinny voice emitting from somewhere under his chin, but couldn't make out the words. "You'll have to speak up!" he said as loudly as he dared, "I think it's a bad connection!"  
  
"Jonathan..." Stephen rolled his eyes and walked over to him, took the receiver from his hand and rotated it 180 degrees before placing it back against the side of his face. "better?"  
  
Jonathan jumped and snatched the speaker away from his ear as the disembodied voice suddenly blared into it, now very loud and clear indeed.  
  
"Dickie?" he asked in surprise, tentatively moving the phone closer again. "Dickie what on earth are you telephoning for at this hour? Is everything alright?"  
  
"No everything is bloody well not alright!" came the slightly distant but still noticeably irate voice on the other end of the line.  
  
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A/N: Ok, please forgive me! First I keep you all waiting so long, and then when I finally get inspiration it turns out to be nothing more than verbal diarrhoea! I know its mean to throw a spanner in the works at the end like that, but I had to do something to make it interesting ...and I promise not to keep you waiting so long next time.  
  
More thrills, spills and Evy's thrup'ney bits in future chapters! (Bachy A, if you're still out there, that's for you!) 


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